


A Damned Good Year (Sequel to Love Bites)

by mlle_notorious



Series: Harry Potter: Official Dragon Tamer [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Harry, Bottom Harry Potter, Dirty Talk, F/F, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Rimming, Top Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 72,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26506972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlle_notorious/pseuds/mlle_notorious
Summary: You all know I'm awful with summaries, but basically, the gang is back for more mischief managed, including, but not strictly limited to:- Domestic fluff- Sassy-yet-awkward Harry- Draco's filthy mouth- Their relationship is now public... how's that working out?- Ben- Lots of travel- Another mystery... of course.
Relationships: Blaise Zabini/Original Female Character(s), Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley/Original Female Character(s), Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: Harry Potter: Official Dragon Tamer [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927177
Comments: 265
Kudos: 357





	1. So... This is Love...

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel, and while nearly every sequel could be read before the prequel, I'd really recommend that you read the first fic before this one as there's quite a bit of backstory. 
> 
> Also, I know I was like "I'll probably take a break and maybe post a PWP or two," but then I realised I don't know how to write a PWP because I have to think of the backstory to make the characters realistic and, like, maybe I'll do it one of these days, but I was too excited to get some of my ideas down for this sequel so why not run with it?
> 
> Also, I was listening to a writer's playlist or something on Spotify and "Great American Novel" by Max Jury was playing as I was re-reading Harry's reflecting on the final confrontation with Williams and I think it made a great soundtrack if any of you like to read with music!
> 
> Also, 300 Galleons equals £904 or $1,443. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy... welcome back, and, as always, comments are great!

_Thursday Evening_

_31 December 2009_

_Harry’s POV_

So… this is love? I mused, eyes landing on Draco once more across the crowded hubbub of the Ministry’s New Year’s Eve gala. 

Several thoughts struck me at once:

First, how goddamned lucky I was, which was, honestly, something I thought every time I laid eyes on my sinfully gorgeous boyfriend. 

And to think that arsehole, Williams, had come thisclose to ruining us?

I still shuddered when I thought back on that evening — when he’d turned Ben into a bloody Portkey and had whisked us all away to that desolate moor out in Devon. 

Watching that nutter fall apart, knowing there was no way he’d managed to cast his stupid app into Draco’s mobile, had almost been amusing — aside from the stomach-churning realisation that several of the blokes I’d pulled since reacquainting myself with Draco had been Williams in fucking disguise, that is. 

Of course, I had appreciated the opportunity to really let my magic go without holding anything back.

I’d been laughing and almost giddy from the adrenaline of it all when Draco had demanded to see my mobile.

His face, as he’d said that none of this was real, had caused all the joy to drain from me immediately. 

I couldn’t describe it — the stunned horror, followed by disbelief, then dread, and finally realisation, all combined in one harrowing look. 

It was the same face Sirius had made just before falling through the veil — that split-second realisation that one’s world had just crumbled and life was now just a memory — and I’d understood in that second just how much Draco loved me and had felt an absolute fool for all the times I’d doubted it. 

I’d lunged for him, knowing he would Disapparate, but I’d been too late.

The Aurors had made their move then, too, closing in on Williams, Ron running at him and tackling him down in one spectacular leap as Williams had reeled from a perfectly timed Stunning spell thrown by Blaise, and I couldn’t help but think how they made quite the team and had understood why they were considered the top two Aurors in the entire department, despite myself. 

Another set of Aurors had grabbed me and I had vaguely heard Department Head Bones explaining that they would need to take me to St. Mungo’s to run tests. 

I had protested vehemently, insisting I wasn’t under any stupid curse and that I needed to get to Draco _now_ , but they were having none of it and I had found myself sitting in one of the narrow infirmary beds moments later, a Healer running diagnostics on both myself and a very anxious-looking Ben. 

_“It’s alright,” I assured him as the Healer’s quill began jotting down our vitals. “They’re just getting our vitals.”_

_“Heartbeats_ _a bit_ _fast for both of you, but that’s_ _to_ _be expected_ _, given the situation you’ve just come from,” the Healer, whom I recognised from my visits while working as an Auror, assured us._

_“It’s been years since we’ve seen you here, Mr Potter.”_

_“No offence, but I’m_ _quite_ _happy about that.”_

_He smiled knowingly, wand swishing over me and then at Ben once more and then holding out his hand to catch the two files that zoomed into them, smirking a little at Ben’s look of surprise._

_Two others entered then, one a Lead Healer, as signalled by his sea-foam-green robes, the other an Assistant Healer, in lavender robes, and the three briefly huddled together around the files and I took the time to smile reassuringly over at Ben._

_“How are you?” I asked, understanding that he was probably so terrified and overwhelmed from the events of the evening that the shock of it all probably hadn’t hit him yet._

_“I… I-I dunno,” he replied, honestly. “This has been a crazy fucking night.”_

_“It has,” I agreed, nodding. “I mean, just so you know, this isn't,_ _like,_ _everyday_ _, normal wizard shit.”_

_“Holy shit, I hope not,” he laughed, and I wasn't as worried about him as I had been just second earlier. “Otherwise I’d feel real sorry for you.”_

_We were interrupted by the Healer team_ _walking over and surrounding Ben._

 _“Sorry to interrupt, but we need to_ _start running_ _tests on Mr Sullivan,” the Lead Healer announced, wand swishing, eyes scanning the glowing halos of purples, reds, and blues that emanated from Ben’s frame._

 _“Just the test results, nothing to worry about,” the Lead Healer assured him_ _, clearly_ _used to working with Muggles who_ _had no idea_ _what was happening to them and who were already wary, having already had some bizarre encounter with Magic to_ _necessitate_ _their treatment at St Mungo’s._

_“What about me?” I demanded, looking at the other three Healers._

_“There’s nothing wrong with me, and I really need to speak with Draco,” I added._

_All three Healer’s heads snapped round to look at me in surprise, and I nearly groaned aloud._

_Of course, they_ _’d_ _had no idea_ who _I_ _was supposed_ _to be in love with on account of the Erised app until I conveniently blurted it out._

 _“Department Head Bones and her team are interrogating the suspect now,” the Lead Healer spoke up, the first to recover. “We don’t,_ _at this point,_ _even know what to test you for.”_

 _“However, given_ _the nature and strength of_ _the curse found on your mobile, and that it_ _was cast_ _twice, no less, it is absolutely in your best interest to remain here until we can_ _ascertain_ _what effects you might be suffering.”_

_He didn’t have to say what all three Healers were clearly thinking aloud._

_The fact that_ _Harry Potter was desperate to leave their care to check on the well-being of Draco Malfoy was reason enough to fear he’d definitely fallen under the Erised app’s curse._

 _“Nasty round of curses and hexes_ _been placed_ _on you, however” another Healer commented, eyes flicking over Ben’s test results._

_“But not to worry — nothing we can’t take care of, and nothing irreversible.”_

_“What_ _kind of_ _curses?” Ben looked terrified again._

_“They don’t mean curses in quite the way you Muggles understand it,” I explained. “It’s not some incantation Williams did that’s going to affect your entire family for generations.”_

_Ben nodded and smiled at me gratefully._

_“Okay,” he said, glancing uncertainly at the Healers._ _“_ _So… how do you fix me? What kinda curses this nut-job put on me, anyway?_

 _“I know he fucked with my memory. I_ _don’t remember anything_ _past December 2004, and I know that ain’t right…”_

“ _That’s the last bit we’ll take care of,” the Lead Healer informed him, shutting his file and handing it to the Assistant Healer._

_“I’m much more concerned with the string of hexes and curses he used to turn you into a Portkey,” he added, wand swishing at Ben._

_“What’s a Portkey?” he asked, eyes riveted, as were mine, on the tangled web of light that appeared around Ben suddenly._

_“And what’s all this stuff?” he added, gesturing at the mess of green and blue rays that hovered around his entire frame._

_The Lead Healer smiled_ _, clearly_ _amused at Ben’s bemusement at the Wizarding world._

_“_ _Those are all the hexes and curses he had placed on you._

 _“A Portkey is a device we wizards_ _use_ _to travel, usually for long distances, or in a large group, or with a child who is too young to Apparate.”_

_He grimaced and gave a shake of his head._

_“Apparating is how we travel within the country and_ _is usually limited_ _to three or four individuals at a time. You must also pass a licensing exam…. I’ve been told this is_ _similar to_ _your Muggle notion of driving a car?”_

_Ben nodded._

_“So, I was a fucking car,” he mused, with a dazed shake of his head, finally relaxed enough that he wasn’t visibly flinching at the three wands waving and swirling, the strings of light hovering around him gradually disappearing as the Healers worked to unravel Williams’ magic._

_“More like a train,” I amended. “Or a plane.”_

_“Shit, I’m putting that on my resume,” he joked. “So what are you doing to me now?”_

_“Unravelling the spells he cast on you to make you a Portkey,” the original Healer replied, not even glancing at Ben, so focused were they on their task._

_“So, doctors are the same everywhere, huh?” he mused, grinning over at me. “Don’t understand quite what they’re doing even when they tell ya.”_

_“They’ve even got messy handwriting, too,” I agreed, nodding seriously._

_Even the Healer team_ _paused to grin_ _at that._

_“There have been… a few memory charms performed on you,” the Lead Healer informed Ben with a slight frown._

_“One a few weeks ago,” he continued, wand swishing._ _“_ _Looks like it just_ _modified_ _a much stronger one from several years earlier._

_“_ _There’s an Obliviate that_ _was placed_ _on you in early 2006 that erased all of your memories with Draco Malfoy. This latest spell altered that to bring you back to 2004._

_“Would you prefer we keep the original Obliviate in place?”_

_“No,” Ben replied. “I’d like to remember everything, please.”_

_The Lead Healer nodded and his wand swished at Ben in a series of complicated patterns, and I watched as his eyes widened and jaw dropped._

_“Holy shit,” he gasped, blinking dazedly up at him._

_“I know,” the Lead Healer replied with an understanding smile and nod of his head._

_“The reversal of an Obliviate is,_ _quite_ _often, Holy shit-inducing,” he added with a smile._

_Ben was still in his mind, reliving the past four-and-a-half years as the memories flooded back into his brain._

_“Malik,” he gasped, focusing on the Lead Healer._ _“_ _He’s going to be so worried about where I am right now._

_“Or fucking livid….”_

_“Is he your partner?” I asked, smiling over at him, and he nodded happily._

_I recognised the smile and look washing over his face as the one I often got when I thought about Draco._

_“We’re engaged,” he informed us all, happy but surprised as the details of his current life came back to him._ _“_ _I’m getting married next year._

_“My mom’s kinda weirded out by that,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the congratulations the three Healers and I had given him._

_“He’s got one of them ‘Muslim-sounding’ names,” he added, winking over at me consiprationally._

_“Can you imagine,” he chuckled with a rueful shake of his head._

_“A staunch Irish-Catholic lady with a son marrying a Muslim-raised dude after 9/11?”_

_“Is she not okay with it all?” I asked sympathetically._

_Ben snorted and grinned to himself._

_“Yes and no,” he replied. “She’s tryin_ _’_ _, but apparently it’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot.”_

_“Good evening,” Department Head Bones’ voice boomed suddenly, and we all looked at the door to see her striding in, Blaise, Ron, and Hermione behind her._

_“Harry!” Ron and Hermione both broke protocol and ran towards me but Blaise remained in line behind Department Head Bones, eyes trained on me, calculating_ _whether or not_ _I was under the Erised app spell, I suppose._

_“Are you alright?” Hermione asked, releasing me, brown eyes gazing up at me worriedly._

_“I’m fine,” I assured her. “I just really need to get out of here so_ _that_ _I can talk to Draco.”_

_Department Head Bones cleared her throat, and we all turned to listen to her explanation of the Erised curse Williams had devised._

_It was bloody brilliant,_ _really,_ _I mused as she explained how it first hit you with the_ _Confundus_ _charm._

_The first Healer’s wand swished at me._

_“_ _He was hit_ _with that charm on both 7 and 23 August,” he confirmed, reading the results of his diagnostic._

_My stomach lurched, and my heart began racing again._

_I didn’t remember the exact dates, but they sounded right about the time when we’d first run into Tristan and when Draco and I had stumbled through our awkward first breakfast at Hush Mayfair._

_I glanced fearfully up at Ron and Hermione, whose eyes reflected the same suspicions back on me, and Blaise’s hazel eyes flared slightly from his stance behind Department Head Bones._

_“No,” I managed. “That’s not… I’m not under a spell. I can’t be.”_

_Department Head Bones, ever the professional, was continuing with her explanation of the app and the use of a_ _modified_ _Amortentia charm._

 _“So the victim will_ _be forever enticed_ _, almost obsessed, with the intended’s smell.”_

 _I_ _actually_ _let out a_ _sort of_ _choked gasp at that._

 _I’d been_ _absolutely_ _obsessed with how incredible Draco smelled._

_“No,” I choked out again, shaking my head and blinking furiously against the tears threatening to fall as I remembered Draco’s face just before he’d Disapparated._

_Another test run by the Healers confirmed that I was under a_ _particularly_ _strong influence_ _of Williams’_ _modified_ _Amortentia and I couldn’t stop the sob that tore up out of me then._

_Maybe they could just leave me under it?_

_I mean, I was happy._

_Draco was happy._

_Why not just continue along in our little blissful bubble?_

_“I’m not under any_ _sort of_ _spell,” I insisted stubbornly_ _, actually_ _crossing my arms and glaring at them all._

“ _I don’t feel like I am, anyway,” I added, looking from Ron, to Hermione, and then Blaise, frantically, as though asking them to confirm that what Draco and I had shared was real._

_“You know how you can feel that you’re under a curse?” I added, running a hand through my hair._

_Blaise was the first to react, albeit almost imperceptibly, but I caught the slight tilt of his head as he focused on me once more._

_“No, Potter,” he returned, voice smooth and calm — as if we weren’t in the middle of a fucking crisis involving myself and his best mate — and I briefly wondered if Snape had insisted on teaching all of his Slytherin progeny the ability to speak calmly and appear unaffected no matter the situation._

_Then, I nearly burst out laughing at the thought of Snape instructing a bunch of terrified eleven-year-olds in the delicate art of “keeping one’s shit under control.”_

_“That’s the whole point,” Blaise was saying._ _“_ _You’re not supposed to know you’re under a curse._

 _“That’s how it works for most witches and wizards_ _, in any case_ _.”_

 _“I think we can all agree that Harry’s not_ most _witches and wizards, can’t we?” Hermione asked with a smirk._

_“Shit, even I know that,” Ben muttered at the same time as Blaise replied:_

_“Definitely not.”_

_“Department Head Bones, would you continue with your explanation of the Erised app?” he asked, eyes still trained on me._

_“I’d heard a rumour or two at Hogwarts regarding Potter’s… unique wizard traits and this_ _particular_ _curse.”_

_“Blaise and Department Head Bones were the ones who interrogated Williams,” Hermione explained at my confused look._

_I_ _actually_ _began laughing when Department Head Bones launched into her explanation of the_ _modified_ _Imperius curse and how it all but turned the victim into the perfect partner for the caster… or whoever the victim_ _happened to look_ _at just after the spell was cast, which, in my case, had been Draco._

 _Ron and Hermione were grinning_ _as well_ _._

_Blaise wasn’t quite grinning, but his eyes had softened while everyone else in the room was looking at the three of us as though we were even more insane than Williams._

_“Imperius doesn’t work on Harry,” Ron crowed gleefully. “Never has, never will!”_

“ _It’s true,” I assured them._

_The Lead Healer’s wand swished._

_“_ _It was cast_ _on the same dates as the others,” he confirmed._

_Still, I felt giddy._

_“But… from what you’ve just explained… the Imperius is the most important part of the Erised app,” I countered._

_“I mean, the_ _Confundus_ _was just to sort of stun me into realising that Draco was gorgeous,” I recapped._

 _“Like Draco would bloody need a spell for someone to realise that,” I added, almost as an afterthought and nearly every face in the room was grinning and nodding ruefully because_ _whether you liked him or not_ _, you couldn’t deny that Draco Malfoy was gorgeous._

_“_ _And the Amortentia just… makes me like the way he smells, which, I mean, I do, I won’t deny, but… it seems like the Imperius is what makes the infatuation stick, am I following correctly?_

_“And, so if I’m not under Imperius, then what I feel for Draco is real, right?”_

_“Yes,” Department Head Bones agreed, looking_ _a bit_ _exasperated, as though she felt that this is exactly what someone under Imperius would say._ _“But you wouldn’t know that you were under it.”_

_“Harry’s not under Imperius, Department Head Bones,” Hermione assured her, glancing over at me, her eyes sparkling happily._

_“Ron and I have both seen him throw it off many times, and…” she glanced over at me, “I think you had to concentrate a bit to throw it off at first, but…”_

_“Cast it,” I offered, seeing Bones’ questioning look and hesitation._

_“You know you’d_ _be allowed_ _under these circumstances,” I added. “And, also, I… really need to see Draco. He’s not alright.”_

_Department Head Bones hesitated a second, then raised her wand._

_“Imperio!”_

_All eyes turned to me with rapt attention._

_“Dance a jig across the room,” she instructed._

_“No,” I smirked back._

_“I command you,” she tried again, wand swishing. “Do it.”_

_“No. I’m pants at dancing.”_

_“That well may be,” Department Head Bones replied, her wand swishing down with such a determined look in her eye_ _that_ _I admit I felt the teensiest pull of her curse this time._

 _“But while under the Imperius, you can, and will, do_ _whatever is asked_ _of you. And do it as perfectly as I command you to.”_

_“No. I don’t feel like it.”_

_Eight sets of eyes stared at me in awe._

_“Now, do you believe me?” I asked, slipping off of the hospital bed and standing._

_“If you’ll excuse me,” I continued. “I really need to go explain all of this to Draco, seeing as I am, apparently, actually madly in love with him.”_

_I felt the Anti-_ _Disapparition_ _wards lift and disappeared, only to find myself toppled back on the floor seconds later._

 _“I was trying to tell you_ _that_ _he’ll have his wards up,” Blaise informed me. “But you left too quickly.”_

_I nodded and struggled to my feet._

_“Course he does,” I grumbled, fishing in my wallet and holding up a brass key triumphantly. “But he gave me the Muggle key for when I shouldn’t Apparate.”_

_Blaise smirked.  
_

_“I’d Apparate to the park,” he advised. “There’s no telling how far he cast the wards.”_

I shook my head and brought myself back to the present, watching Draco once more as I raised my glass of champagne to my lips, discovering, perhaps, my favourite part about being in love. 

Watching Draco now, with his perfectly pressed black suit glancing down at the witch talking to him, lips quirking up in an elegant smile as he leaned closer as though anticipating her comment, and realising that this was Public Draco.

The posh, perfectly polite gentleman with just a hint of mystery and danger lingering about him, smiling a perfectly gracious smile and laughing at whatever the witch had just said. 

This wasn’t _my_ Draco.

My Draco, who woke beside me — on the mornings I was lucky enough to rise before he did — adorably rumpled and pitifully squeezing his eyes shut against the sunlight.

My Draco, who would alternately frown and give triumphant cries of glee as he filled out the Daily Telegraph’s cryptic each morning — in ink, no less — it was a competition he and Hermione had, which was fine with me so long as it kept him occupied during breakfast so I could eat my toast in silence and just stare at how pretty he was.

My Draco, who would end up red-faced and collapsed on the floor, speechless for the giggles erupting from his mouth as he shrieked and tried to gasp at me to stop tickling him, nevermind he was the one who’d started it.

My Draco, who would dance around the flat, singing along to his most recent playlist, alternating between positively hysterical, exaggerated antics that left me doubled over with laughter, completely unembarrassed by my own woeful attempts at dancing, and showcasing his actual incredible dance moves that left me no doubt to the sincerity of Pansy’s claim that she and Blaise used to have to physically shove the boys away from him on the dance floor when they used to frequent Muggle clubs — for their safety, of course, because Draco had, apparently, not thought twice to hex a poor boy who had misread or ignored the “I’m-not-interested-so-back-off” vibe he would send their way. 

I grinned to myself again as Draco smiled down at the witch beside him once more, no doubt making some witty, perfectly timed comment, and I recognised the smile as his “Someone-please-help-I’ve-never-been-so-fucking-bored” smile as his eyes flickered around the room, seeking and finding me, brow raised in a silent question, and I couldn’t help but feel lucky that I was the only one who knew the real Draco. 

Well, that I was one amongst a select few, anyway, I amended as Pansy suddenly appeared at my side.

“Come on, Potter,” she snapped, grasping me by the elbow and steering me through the throng of people towards Draco. 

“Don’t you recognise that look? Lover Boy needs our help.” 

Trouble was, it wasn’t easy manoeuvering our way through the throng of people desperate to speak with me. 

It’d always been difficult for me being in public in the wizarding world, but the past month had been a whole new level, to say the least.

When I’d arrived at the Quidditch pitch that Saturday evening the day after the confrontation with Williams — had it only been a few weeks? It felt like years — I hadn’t been all that surprised to find a swarm of reporters from the Prophet waiting at the gates, cameras at the ready. 

I’d mostly ignored the calls and questions aimed at me, although I had flashed them a cheeky grin and made sure the t-shirt from Charlie was well and visible. 

Really, it was all the answer they’d needed, and the Prophet and nearly every gossip paper had featured a photo of me striding into the stadium, the dragon on my shirt calmly laying down for a snooze, my knowing little smirk in place as I disappeared into the stadium, doors shutting behind me. 

The masses were decidedly split:

Those who were overjoyed that their Boy Who Lived had found love at last, and with a redeemed Death Eater, no less — many of our acquaintances from other houses and other years at Hogwarts gladly volunteering information about how there’d always been a “spark” about us, some stories making Draco and I alternately groan and chuckle as we perused the evening mail brought to us by Horace, his giant eagle owl. 

And, of course, there were those who were simply not having any of it. 

The Boy Who Lived, gay? 

Absolutely not.

Cavorting with an Ex-Death-Eater? 

Well, of course, if he was going to live in sin, might as well do it all out and properly. 

The Howlers had piled so deep outside the manor that I’d done something I thought I would never do.

I’d played my fame card.

Stormed right into Shacklebot’s office, ignoring his secretary, and demanded that he see me that instant and that he put a stop to the Howlers — I didn’t care how, just that it got fucking done.

Kingsley had stared, not used to this side of me. 

I’d apologised immediately, realising that it wasn’t Kingsley’s fault that roughly three-quarters of my once-adoring public was not pleased with either my sexual orientation, my choice of partner, or both. 

But I had held my ground regarding them being stopped, knowing damned well Kingsley could do something about it. 

They had stopped that very evening, and Draco and I had hunkered down to enjoy the holidays with Narcissa at their château in the Loire Valley, Draco having forgiven my lack of suitable wine knowledge for the time being. 

It had been nearly three weeks of absolute bliss — lazy mornings spent lingering in bed with Draco, days filled with incredible food, wine that even I could recognise as superb, endless evenings of laughter and stories with Narcissa before the fire and then tumbling into bed, sated and sleepy, only to repeat the cycle next day — the only break in routine being when Andromeda and Teddy had joined us for four days on Christmas Eve. 

To be honest, I’d wished it would never end, and the return to London a few days prior had been a reality check.

The Howlers had stopped.

But the press had not. 

Even now, as Pansy dragged me across the room, witches and wizards were reaching out to grab me.

“Harry! So wonderful to see you again!” 

“Wishing you and Lord Malfoy all the best!”

“I would have never guessed, but we’re so happy for you, dear….” 

These well-wishers were gifted with a smile from both Pansy and I as we wove our way through the crowd.

“Ought to put you in St. Mungo’s for observation, I say,” another portly wizard humphed beside me.

“I know they say it’s not a choice anymore, but I can’t help but wonder if they both did it for the publicity. Neither has known a life outside of it, you realise….” 

“Disgusting,” I heard another witch mutter as we passed. “And we’re supposed to be thankful to him while he’s gallivanting around like a dandy with the _Malfoy_ heir?” 

I would have loved to have hexed them as we passed, and I, honestly, just barely restrained myself. 

“Took you two long enough,” Draco huffed, deftly grabbing the flute of champagne from my grasp and taking a sip. “I thought I was going to have to listen to her sorry attempts at humour all night, the rate you two were moving.” 

“Do you work at being such a bitch, or does it just come naturally?” Pansy asked, smiling sweetly as she sipped her champagne demurely.

Draco just stared at her for a few seconds. 

“Are we even friends if you have to ask?” 

He stole another sip from my glass, then pressed a kiss just above my ear.

“I missed you,” he sighed, kissing my temple once again. 

“I left your side, literally, not even ten minutes ago,” I protested feebly, pressing closer against him, secretly… okay, not-so-secretly… glad that he’d missed me. 

“I know,” he replied, leaning down and kissing my mouth this time. “And I missed you.” 

“Merlin, you two are ridiculous,” Pansy informed us, although the way she was positively beaming told me she really felt otherwise. 

“Oh, shut up,” Draco chided, tucking my arm into his as we made our way back across the room. 

“You ought to find yourself someone of your own with whom to be ridiculous,” he added. “You deserve one.” 

“I’m too damned picky,” Pansy grumbled, tucking her arm into Draco’s right one even as he checked his mobile, pulling us along through the crowd. “I don’t have to explain to either of you how insufferable men are these days.” 

“Blaise says they’re all out on the balcony getting ready for the fireworks,” Draco informed us, tucking his mobile back into his inner breast pocket and we continued across the room towards the balcony, stopping to pick up a fresh flute of champagne on the way.

“Bout time you got here!” Blaise shouted, holding up a bottle of champagne and motioning for us to join him and Anaïs.

Fleur and Bill were also huddled with them, and I grinned as I realised that our “group” took up nearly the entire balcony. 

Arthur and Molly were a few paces away, chatting with Andromeda and Narcissa while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were watching Charlie, George and Micah, who were all leaning over the balcony, peering at something with great interest and I had no doubt George was showing them some of his latest inventions from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

Suddenly the disapproving stares and snide comments seemed small and insignificant now that we were surrounded by our smiling group of family and friends. 

“What? No children?” Draco demanded, looking downright upset that both Blaise and Anaïs and Bill and Fleur had shown up to the gala childless. 

“They're all celebrating with Mamie and Papi Varon. Hugo, Manon, Victoire, Dominique, _and_ Teddy,” Anaïs explained, she and Draco doing that French cheek-kissy thing.

She turned to me next, arms held out, then she frowned and said something to me in French, which, of course, I did _not_ understand.

Then she clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes widening as she glanced sheepishly around at Blaise, Fleur, then Draco, still speaking in French while I just stood there, feeling highly uncultured and bewildered. 

“Yes, you are speaking French, and yes, he does the bise,” Draco was drawling, shoving me playfully towards Anaïs and I stumbled as I turned back towards him. 

“I do the what?” I demanded, reaching out to give Anaïs a hug while Blaise laughed and scolded:

“Merlin, Potter, will you just hurry up and kiss my wife already so that she feels properly greeted?”

Anaïs turned her left cheek towards me, and the light bulb finally went off in my head, and I laughed as we kissed first one cheek, then the opposite, and then I went to step back, but Anaïs turned her cheek for a third kiss.

“Oh,” I laughed again. “Okay, we do it three times then? What’s it called? Bees?”

“La bise,” Anaïs repeated, nodding and taking a sip of champagne. 

“I’m so sorry,” she continued. “I never know which language I’m speaking anymore.” 

“I wish I had that problem,” I replied honestly, turning towards Fleur.

“So… I guess… do we do… this bise thing, too? I mean, we never have done before, but I don’t want you feeling left out.” 

“You English are uncomfortable to do it,” she laughed, turning her right cheek towards me, making a kissy noise, then on the other cheek. 

I went in for a third, but she had pulled away.

“Oh, so only two, then? Why? Was this not good for you, or…” 

I was confused again, but at least managed to make a proper joke of it this time. 

“I think there are as many different versions of doing the kissy greeting thing as there are regions in France,” Bill assured me with a grin as everyone laughed. 

“I just sort of standby and follow her lead.” 

“This is good advice for everything that you do,” Fleur retorted, sipping her champagne and grinning up at Bill. 

Greetings continued, and I was thrilled to see that Hermione was pleasantly sloshed — she usually didn’t let herself go too much, but there was something about the bubbles in the champagne that made her an adorable, happy mess. 

“Harry, Draco, Blaise… all of you! Come here!” she squealed, bouncing excitedly and gesturing us over with her hand. 

“George just set off a Demon Dung Cracker on this witch who didn’t like that there was a Muggle here,” Charlie whispered, catching us up on what we were supposed to be excited about.

Micah gave a sudden whoop of delight, and George jabbed his fist in the air in triumph, the stench of the Demon Dung cracker slightly tickling our own noses. 

“George!” Molly rounded on her son immediately.

“Careful, Malfoy,” Ron laughed, as George put up his palms in protest, then wrapped his arms around Micah, clearly defending his actions to Molly.

“George took quite a liking to Micah over the winter hols and he might be about to adopt her himself.” 

Draco head snapped back to the two, still pleading their case with Molly, silver eyes flashing.

“Oi, George,” he shouted. “What’s this I hear about you trying to steal _my_ Muggle!” 

Draco was already halfway between our little group and George, Micah, and Mrs Weasly. 

Micah laughed and ran towards Draco, closing the distance to fling her arms round his neck as he grabbed her up and swung her around, both of them giggling with glee. 

“Oh, yeah?” George countered good-naturedly, pretending to grab Micah back from Draco. “Who says she can’t be adopted twice? Maybe she’s my Muggle, too!”

“You two both realise that she’s actually mine, right?” Ginny spoke up, frowning between Draco and George warily as Micah slung her arm around Ginny’s shoulder, still laughing. 

“Shhh,” she admonished, nuzzling into Ginny’s side. “That’s not how they meant it.” 

“Obviously, Ginevra,” Draco scoffed good-naturedly, turning to allow Blaise to fill his glass once more. 

“Micah’s my adopted Muggle, not my _partner_.” 

Any comeback someone might have tried to make was cut off by the whistle of a firework soaring up and bursting above us, and we turned our attention skywards to enjoy the show.

“Holy shit,” I heard Micah gasp as Blaise continued to fill everyone’s champagne glass to the brim. “I had a feeling wizard fireworks were gonna be insane, but damn….”

“New Year, new you, that’s how the saying goes, right Potter?” Draco murmured in my ear as I leant back against him. 

“Mmm,” I sighed, sipping my champagne and watching a shower of fireworks dance across the sky. 

“I dunno. I kind of like the me I am right now,” I replied. “Here with you.” 

Draco smiled and tilted his head down to meet me for a languid kiss.

“I suppose I meant _our_ new year… our first entire year together,” he amended, turning me towards him and leaning down to kiss me, lips and tongue gently teasing in that way only he could to have me pressed entirely too closely against him, begging for more. 

“Ha! I knew it!” Ron crowed gleefully somewhere to my right, and I pulled away from Draco to frown at him. 

“They haven’t left yet!” Hermione protested. “And now you’ve given it away, so it’s not a fair bet anymore, is it?” 

“I’m sorry,” I snapped. “Did you lot really take bets on… on… what, exactly?” 

“On whether or not you two would make it to midnight,” Charlie replied. 

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m with Hermione on this one,” I countered. “We’re still here, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but I’m ninety-nine per cent sure you were about to Apparate back home,” Ginny replied as Blaise appeared at Draco’s side, another bottle of champagne held up.

“More?” he asked with a too-innocent-grin, tipping the bottle to top Draco’s flute off, knowing damned well that tipsy Draco equalled a touchy-feely, _extremely_ flirty Draco. 

Anaïs said something to Blaise, swatting at his arm, and I didn’t even need to understand French to understand she was clearly telling him to stop trying to turn the odds in his favour. 

“Oh, you lot are in on this, too?” Draco demanded, eyes narrowing at “his” friends. 

“Course we are,” Pansy answered, holding her glass out towards Blaise for a refill. “There’s quite the jackpot at stake.”

“George has been taking bets since Samhain,” Bill admitted as George, somewhat guiltily, unshrunk a roll of parchment and held it up for us to see. 

“What the?” Draco gasped, leaning closer to examine the complex-looking betting system, complete with prop bets, George had set up. 

“Will Harry lean up and rub his nose against Draco’s before 9:30 pm? One point,” I read, scowling. 

“Will Draco pretend to disapprove? Zero points? The fuck is that even on there, then?” Draco demanded, glaring at George, who merely grinned and shrugged sheepishly. 

“Harry will spend at least three-quarters of the evening snuggled against Draco’s side. Under or over.

“ _All_ of you guessed over? Nice,” I scoffed. “And how would you measure that, officially?”

Hermione swallowed another gulp of champagne and flicked her wand. 

A statistic appeared stating that I had, apparently, spent seventy-eight per cent of the evening burrowed against Draco’s right side. 

Eight per cent against his left. 

“Nice use of our Department’s assets, Granger-Weasley,” Draco chuckled, despite himself. 

“I didn’t hex anyone for looking at Harry the wrong way, for the record,” he added, eyes flicking down to the next prop item. “I know better than that.” 

“You thought we’d have an argument before 9?” I demanded.

“No,” George defended himself. “Just that it was a possibility for us all to bet on.” 

“Draco will kiss Harry first, any sort of kiss,” Draco continued, frowning down at me.

“Help me, Hecate, but how many times have I told you about that ridiculous mouth of yours, Potter?”

I turned to glare up at him, an indignant response on my lips, when I heard Micah ask:

“Ooh! Does it still count if they argue now?!” 

Draco and I both turned our glares on her. 

“Sorry,” she said, wincing a bit, but still managing to grin. “Galleons are still really exciting to me.” 

“Just how many Galleons have you got in this pot?” Draco demanded. 

“About three-hundred,” Ron replied, shrugging. 

“ _Three-hundred_?” I repeated, aghast. 

“Twenty Galleon buy-in with twelve betters, plus all the prop bets, and that’s without the Squares,” he explained. 

“So, how many times have I fixed Harry’s suit for him?” Draco asked, having moved onto the next question. “Are you under or over the predicted twenty?” 

“Surprisingly under,” Hermione said, wand swishing again, showing that Draco had only fixed my suit twelve times. “But there’s still time.” 

“What’s in it for me?” Draco teased, raising his hands towards the lapels of my jacket, and I ducked out of his way. 

“Does that count?” Anaïs asked excitedly. “He is fixing his suit, non?” 

“…. caught in a compromising position… Mum, really?” Draco demanded, glaring up at Narcissa as her name appeared next to those betting yes. 

“Really,” she replied unapologetically, giving us both a pointed stare, and I worked very hard at looking at anything but her. 

“How are you even playing Squares on this?” I asked, genuinely curious as I stared at the grid filled in with all of our mates’ and families’ initials.

“Oh, easy,” George replied. “It’s how many kisses you do per hour. Draco’s the columns and Harry’s the rows.

“Ronnie-kins, you actually won last quarter!”

Ron let out a whoop and raised his glass toward Draco and I. 

“So glad Harry and I could amuse you,” Draco griped, pulling me towards him with a smirk as he placed a chaste kiss on my mouth and then nestled me against his side again. 

“There’s another kiss for whoever’s the lucky one this quarter,” he added. 

“This might become a new tradition,” Pansy informed us, watching as George’s parchment ticked the new data. 

“Good to know,” I replied, smirking up at Draco. “We’ll be sure to keep you all guessing in the years to come.” 

“TEN! NINE! EIGHT!” we heard being shouted around us, and all thoughts of the bets flew out the window as we joined in the countdown.

I’d never actually had someone to kiss at the stroke of midnight — someone special, anyway, and I turned to stare up at Draco in excitement.

He was gazing back down at me, grinning lazily, clearly reading how excited I was.

“So… where were we, Potter?” he asked, leaning a fraction closer, but still not quite close enough.

Bastard.

“New year, new us?” I replied, stretching up hopefully. 

“Happy New Year, Kitten,” he murmured, finally brushing his lips against mine. “It’s going to be a damned good one.” 

“I’m looking forward to it,” I replied, sighing happily and leaning into the kiss as the countdown reached “one,” and shouts of “Happy New Year” surrounded us. 

It was going to be a damned good one, indeed. 


	2. The Weekly Freezing of Hades Resumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get some glimpses into the domestic lives of our characters as they continue to hang out and have dinner parties together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Before I forget, I owe it to mss_melanie13 for the title of this ENTIRE series because she suggested it to me in a comment!  
> 2\. Also, a shoutout to Housey164 for little Hugo being confronted with his idol.  
> 3\. Sorry for the slow-moving chapter, but it's setting the tone for the story. You'll see :)  
> 4\. For those of you on Wattpad, I just posted the entire first portion (Love Bites) there WITH tons of photos of all the places in which the story takes place! (For some reason, my laptop is the worst and refuses to link any photos on AO3, no matter what?)  
> If you'd like, here is the link for Wattpad https://www.wattpad.com/story/242282365-love-bites (again, my stupid laptop won't let me link anything in the notes?)   
> If you are the type to re-read the first story of this series, re-read it on Wattpad! I'm not getting very many hits and I'm not sure what tags I should be putting on to make it appear in searches, but if I get more readers, that'll probably help!

_Friday Evening_

_08 January 2010_

_Ben’s POV_

“Are you sure we’re welcome here?” Malik asked, staring up at the imposing entryway of Fountain House, with its round bell-shaped brass awning topped with a statue of a little kid strangling a fish, or something.

I mean, it looked awesome. 

But I didn’t get it. 

“Strictly residents only,” he continued, reading the brass sign that stood at the short flight of steps leading to the gleaming glass doors tucked back in the recessed archway. 

“Don’t be like that,” I chided, grinning and leaning over to kiss him gently. 

I knew he was mostly joking because he was a little nervous to be hanging out with my ex and a bunch of his friends, all of whom were wizards. 

And now we were in Mayfair, like, the poshest neighborhood in all of London, in one of these old mansion buildings overlooking fucking Hyde Park. 

“Draco’s not like that,” I went on, opening the door for him and nodding at the porter who frowned at us immediately. 

“We’re, uh, here to see Draco Malfoy,” I informed him, reaching into my pocket to grab my cell phone, where I’d stashed his flat number. 

The porter’s frown disappeared immediately, although he didn’t exactly smile, either.

“Yes,” he said, straightening. “Lord Malfoy had mentioned he was having company this evening.” 

He held his arm out to the right, signalling the small flight of steps at the end of the gigantic pillared foyer. 

“Thanks,” I replied, smiling and grasping Malik’s hand as we set off down the hallway skirting the large, round, dark wood table set with an elegant floral arrangement.

“How much do you think a flat in a building like this costs?” Malik whispered, hand tightening slightly in mine as he took in the massive pillars and plush lounge nook on our way to the elevator.

“No idea,” I replied. “But the let alone on one of these places is probably more than one of our salaries.” 

I’d been surprised when Draco and I had moved to London and I’d realized he was wealthy. 

Really.

I mean, I hadn’t known nothing about England or London.

Just the stereotypes, anyway, so I would’ve thought his accent was posh no matter what and had assumed that his prim and proper side was just, you know, English, too. 

And it’s not like that crummy studio he’d been living in gave anything away.

Then he’d met me in London when I’d flown in and had whisked me away on the train to arrive at this gigantic fucking mansion, complete with the imposing wrought-iron gates and the servants and the fancy gardens with peacocks — fucking _peacocks_ — running around. 

You could’ve fit three of the house I grew up in inside the entrance alone. 

And, whereas I had grown up sharing a room with two brothers, Draco had had three rooms all to himself.

Like, no fucking joke, you walked into his room, and it was a sitting room, then a study, and then, finally, the bedroom. 

And then we’d gone “flat-hunting” in London, and I’d nearly fainted at the prices of the ones he’d picked out.

And then almost fainted again when I’d remembered how much more the goddamn pound was worth than the dollar. 

“Angel, baby…” I’d whispered into his ear as were on tour. “There’s no way I can afford my share of this.” 

“Who said we were sharing?” he’d asked, frowning down at me. 

“The let, I mean,” he’d amended, grinning at my startled face and leaning over to kiss me and ruffling my hair. 

“That’s not… I can’t… I’m not living here for free,” I’d argued. 

“Of course not, we’re splitting the utilities,” he’d assured me. 

Apparently, I hadn’t looked convinced, cause he’d done that perfect exasperated eye-roll he always did and had drawled.

“These are the same flats I’d be looking at if you weren’t here, so, really, you’re just an added bonus…”

His eyes had narrowed a bit as he continued to glance around the reception. 

“I like it,” he’d stated. “What do you think? Can you picture it?”

“I dunno,” I’d shrugged. “It’s nice, but I’m not good at imagining furniture and all that.” 

“Oh, I’m not imagining the furniture,” he’d corrected me, taking my hand and dragging me down the hallway towards the bedroom. 

“I’m imagining all the places and ways we get to christen it.” 

When the realtor had found us a couple minutes later, making out like horny teenagers in the middle of the hallway, Draco hadn’t even blushed a little as he’d straightened.

“We’ll take it.”

And that’s how I — Ben, a poor kid from South Boston — had ended up calling fucking Chelsea my home for the first four years in London; I’d found out recently that Draco had continued to pay the rent until the lease was up, too.

Me, being the idiot, sometimes gullible fool that I am, hadn’t questioned the landlord’s story that I had, somehow, on my fucking meager bartender salary, paid for the next seven months in advance. 

Of course, when I’d seen the price of the place when it came time to renew the lease, the landlord apologizing and explaining that property values had spiked dramatically, thus driving the rent up (bullshit, I now realized), I’d moved out and found myself down in Brixton, closer to my job as a bartender at The Crown and Sceptre.

I still worked there, and Malik and I had just bought our first flat together a year ago, literally across the street from the pub.

I loved Brixton, really. 

It reminded me of home. 

Eclectic, fast-paced, a live-music scene that was to die for, and tons of great food. 

A little dangerous, sure, if you weren’t paying attention.

But I wasn’t raised in South Boston for nothing, and I felt at home here. 

It was, decidedly, a far cry from Mayfair. 

I glanced over at Malik as he leaned against the wall of the elevator. 

“Don’t worry, Hot Sauce,” I assured him again, wrapping my arms around him and resting my forehead against his. 

“Draco and his mates aren’t like that,” I promised him, knowing he was no doubt wondering if he’d get that cold, almost polite disdain these upper class Brits were so good at when they were around someone different.

Someone, ahem, _brown_. 

“They’re fun.” 

I decided not to mention that Blaise was half black, partly because I knew he’d protest and insist that wasn’t what was bothering him and partly so I could give him a little shit-eating grin when he met Blaise so that he’d know I’d known he’d been convinced they’d be racist all along.

“What about the wizard part?” he asked, uncertainly. 

I had to admit, Malik was taking that way better than I would have if the tables had been turned. 

I’d shown up at our flat that evening around midnight, accompanied by two officials from the Ministry for Magic, because, yes, there was such a thing, and they’d explained to Malik where I’d been and what had happened to me, and he’d just stared at the three of us, jaw slack like he didn’t know what to even begin to make of it all. 

Course, he’d spent the past few weeks asking me to tell him one more time what had happened again? 

Witches and wizards were really real? 

This wasn’t some weird prank, was it?

Or an elaborate cover for cheating — because he’d take a few seconds to be really impressed before he kicked the shit out of me.

In the end, he’d just wrinkled his nose, the way he always did when he was thinking and had said:

“Actually, that makes sense.”

It did? 

Excuse me?

“Always thought it was a bit odd that you’d just decided to move to London, for no reason, on a complete whim, but had all your visa paperwork in perfect order.” 

Malik and I exited the elevator and walked down the hallway lined with wide, beautifully grained doors, each with a brass mail slot about a third of the way up from the ground until we reached Draco’s.

I rang the doorbell and I couldn’t help but lean down and give Malik another kiss.

You know, just to reassure him. 

That’s all. 

Not because I had, after regaining all of my memories of him — after having them all wiped out — spent the past few weeks totally obsessed with my beautiful, sexy, smart, fucking incredible fiancé.

It was kinda like falling in love with him all over again.

“It’s Ben!” Harry cried out, flinging the door open and turning to grin excitedly at Draco and Pansy, who were seated on the two sofas across the room. “I win!” 

“We took bets on who was going to show up next,” he explained, swinging the door open, allowing us to step inside as Pansy and Draco rose from their seats to cross the reception. 

“Let me get your coats,” he offered, holding out his hand, and I smiled as I shrugged out of mine and handed it to him.

“Thanks, Harry,” I replied, turning to help Malik with his. “This is my fiancé, Malik.” 

“Hi,” Harry smiled at him as he hung our coats up on the coat rack at the door. 

“I’m Harry,” he continued, holding out his hand, and I couldn’t help but be a little amused watching my fiancé shaking the hand of my ex’s current boyfriend. 

There were more introductions and handshakes, and then a slightly awkward moment as Draco and I both went to hug, then stopped abruptly, then laughed and decided to hug it out, after all. 

“What can I get you lads to drink?” he asked, releasing me and looking from me to Malik expectantly. 

“I’ll take a Guinness, if you’ve got it,” I replied, and Draco rolled his eyes, causing Malik to chuckle.

“Merlin, you’re so fucking boring,” Draco informed me. “Try something else, for once, will you?”

“I try lots of stuff. I’m a bartender,” I protested. “I just know what I like.” 

“What have you got?” Malik asked.

“Try to name a drink Drakey hasn’t got,” Pansy drawled as she swirled her martini.

“Goldschlager,” I challenged, smirking over at Draco knowingly. 

“But you _like_ cinnamon-flavoured things,” Harry mused, brow wrinkling. 

“Yeah, a little too much, that one night,” I explained, and I couldn’t help giggling at remembering how very drunk Draco had got the first — and only — time he’d tried the fiery-sweet drink and had insisted that he would be just _fine_ when I’d warned him how strong it was and had continued to down shots like they were candy.

Damn, I wish I would’ve taken some pictures of him slumped miserably against the toilet later that night, then curled up, groaning pitifully, beneath the blankets the next day, declaring any light too much light. 

“Malik,” Draco said, shooting me a dirty look. “With the exception of Goldschlager, is there anything I can get for you?” 

“Is that whiskey you’re having?” Malik asked, his eyes sparkling with interest at the amber liquid in Draco’s glass. “I’ll take one neat, please.” 

Draco nodded and had turned to walk into the kitchen when Blaise just fucking _appeared_ right in front of us, toppling into Malik.

“Whoa! Sorry, mate,” he apologised, he and I both reaching out to steady my fiancé who had nearly fallen over from the combination of Blaise practically landing on him and the shock of a dude just appearing out of nowhere.

“Blaise, we’d agreed no magic tonight!” Pansy scolded, swatting at his arm. “Muggles don’t just fucking magically appear in their mates’ flats!” 

“Ow!” Blaise complained, rubbing at his shoulder and glaring at Pansy. “I thought I was early. 

“I don’t like coming the Muggle way. That porter downstairs gives me the creeps.”

“I don’t think he likes people like us,” Malik spoke up, quirking his mouth at Blaise. 

“He doesn’t,” Draco spoke up, leaning against the door frame leading to the kitchen, and then I remembered that Draco could read minds or something. 

“That’s why I hit him with a worrying jinx whenever I see him,” he added with a smirk. 

“A worrying jinx?” I echoed, frowning. “What, does that just make him worry about… something?”

“Whatever I want to make him worry about that day,” Draco replied with a casual shrug, his eyes focused on our still-empty hands and he grinned.

“Well, since the jig is up,” he joked, and six glasses came zooming into the room, hovering in front of us. 

“Wicked,” Malik breathed, reaching out to take the glass of whiskey floating in front of him.

“How’d you never slip up and accidentally float me stuff all that time we were together?” I asked, grabbing my Guinness and taking a sip. 

“I’m a professional,” Draco answered, shooting me an injured look.

“Also, I might have made you forget a few seconds here and there,” he added, taking a sip of his drink and looking the slightest bit sorry at my pointed stare. 

“Sorry….” he added, pushing away from the door frame and striding over to the couches.

“Lovely as it is, standing in a huddle by the entry, I do also have these wonderful things that you sit on in this corner here that are quite comfortable.” 

He sat on the couch facing us and gestured elegantly at the other sitting perpendicular to his own. 

I grinned again as I remembered Draco’s look of shock and, honestly, disdain, when I’d told him I hadn’t realized he was upper class until we got to England. 

Now, after almost six years in London, I’d recognize Draco’s social status based on his accent alone, nevermind he tried to tone it down.

It was true.

Here in England, your accent defined you.

Not that Boston was all that different. 

You either sounded like a Kennedy, a “regular” Bostonian, or me. 

But then there were these graceful little gestures and mannerisms that I now also recognized as part of his upbringing, and not just, you know… being English, or whatever. 

We settled easily onto the couches and were nearly through our round of drinks, talking and laughing, when the doorbell rang, and Draco untangled himself from Harry to go answer it.

“I call Ron and Mione!” Harry shouted.

“Micah and Ginny, for sure,” Blaise retorted, flicking a large golden coin onto the coffee table. 

Harry grinned and added another coin, as did Pansy.

“Ron and Hermione,” she added.

“Umm…” I hesitated, staring at the three gold coins and wondering what their value in pounds might be. 

“Micah and Ginny,” I called out quickly as Draco’s hand reached for the doorknob, throwing a five-pound note on the table, figuring they couldn’t be betting a whole lot on this sort of thing. 

Draco opened the door, and all four of them walked in, and we all groaned.

“Glad to see you fuckers, too,” Micah humphed, kissing Draco on the cheek and glaring over at us. 

“No, it’s just, we placed bets on who was going to be at the door, but it’s all four of you, so no one wins,” Harry explained, standing and waving a hand at the dining table and…

Holy shit! 

Two of the chairs morphed into a small sofa and sailed across the room to join the two sofas we were already sitting on, like it had always been there.

Malik and I were just staring, jaws open, and Pansy shot Harry a dirty look from her seat beside us on the “real” sofa that faced Draco’s tv.

“You should probably warn them before you go Transfiguring things, Potter,” she snapped. 

“It’s their first time hanging out with Wizards. Don’t scare them away.” 

“Not true,” Harry replied with a grin, walking across the reception to rejoin Draco on “their” couch perpendicular to ours. 

Micah and Ginny, I noticed, curled up on the couch alongside Harry and Draco, while Ron and Hermione joined Blaise on the newly-made couch facing them. 

“Ben’s hung out with us before,” Harry continued with a grin. “And seen lots of magic.” 

I rolled my eyes and groaned, as did several others in the room. 

“I don’t know if that counts, bro,” I informed him, lobbing a crumpled up napkin at him good-naturedly. 

“So, you were all there that night?” Malik asked, looking at the group assembled around us curiously. 

“Yeah, I got pulled along with Hermione, Draco, and Harry when that idiot turned Ben into a Portkey,” Micah piped up. 

“And we used a tracking device Draco’s mum had put on him to locate them and bring backup,” Ron explained.

The conversation turned, immediately, to that night, everyone adding their point of view, which was interesting, honestly.

For example, Pansy, knowing that, between Harry, Draco, Hermione, Ron, and Blaise, the lunatic would be handled had made it her personal mission to work with Ginny to protect Micah and I — not only from Williams but from any stray spells that might have come our way if an actual battle had ensued. 

Blaise and Ron admitted that, for the first time in their careers, it had been difficult to remain professional, seeing as the two men targeted were their best friends from school. 

Hermione had been focused on steering Williams to confess as much as possible, recording it with some sort of recording spell. 

Micah admitted that she’d had to remind herself several times that it hadn’t been a movie and that she’d been in a potentially very dangerous situation. 

Malik had spent most of the evening alternating between furious and heartbroken, because what the fuck else were you going to think when your fiancé suddenly doesn’t come home from work and it’s midnight?

When that conversation began winding its way down, Draco asked if we preferred moving to the table or staying where we were for dinner and I glanced uncertainly over at the dining table, which could have easily sat six, but not ten. 

Maybe seven, if people squeezed in on the loveseat, or if Harry just sat in Draco’s lap, since he practically was already.

Seriously, they were fucking adorable, and I had to chuckle to myself because the Draco I knew would have never let someone lean against him, and curl into him, and constantly nuzzle into him the way Harry did. 

Don’t get me wrong.

Draco had no issues with PDAs, but he’d always hated schmoopy, cutesy displays of affection, and would always snarl at me not to be a “fucking hufflepuff.” 

Which, it dawned on me, might actually mean something, instead of just some made-up word I’d assumed he’d been using. 

Like, maybe some cute, fluffy wizard animal or something.

“What’s a hufflepuff?” I asked suddenly, and seven pairs of eyes snapped over to me, a few giggles escaping them. 

“How do you know what a hufflepuff is?” Ginny asked gleefully, smirking over at Harry and Draco. 

“I don’t,” I replied. “That’s why I’m asking. 

“But this one here would always snap at me and tell me not to be a hufflepuff, and it just dawned on me that maybe it’s not just a word he made up about being cute in public.

“Are _you_ a hufflepuff?” I asked, grinning over at Harry.

Harry scowled immediately and sat up straight, shoving Draco aside with his elbow.

“No,” he muttered. “Draco just makes me act like one.” 

“It’s one of the four houses at the wizarding school we all went to,” Hermione explained, and I quickly filed away that she was the one to ask when I really needed to know shit about the wizarding world.

Not only did she seem to know everything, but she explained it well, too.

“Each house has its own traits, and…” she paused and frowned. 

“I mean, Hufflepuffs are _supposed_ to be hard-working and just friendly, genuinely _good_ people, but it kind of gets twisted into being… well…”

She gestured over at Harry and Draco as if to prove her point.

“I gotcha,” I said, nodding. “And… I’m guessing none of you was in Hufflepuff, then?”

“No, we were in Gryffindor,” Ron spoke up, signalling himself, his wife, his sister, and Harry. 

“They were in Slytherin,” he continued, gesturing at Draco, Blaise, and Pansy. “The two houses with the biggest rivalry in history.”

“It’s only because Ravenclaws were too busy solving riddles and studying and Hufflepuffs were too Hufflepuff-y,” Pansy drawled. 

“What were your two houses known for?” Malik asked curiously. “I think it’s pretty great that you’re all mates now, anyway.” 

“Trust me, hell froze over a while back when our little group began meeting for pints,” Ron assured him.

“Well, let’s have a little fun, shall we?” Harry suggested, settling back against Draco. “You lot describe Gryffindor, and we’ll describe Slytherin.” 

“Ooh, this is going to be interesting,” I laughed, unwrapping my arms from around Malik and leaning forward eagerly. 

“Brash,” Pansy said immediately, sipping her drink and smirking, first at Ron and Hermione, then sliding her gaze over to Harry and Ginny. 

“Headstrong,” Blaise picked up right off of Pansy’s lead.

“Stubborn gits,” Draco added.

“Damned reckless,” Pansy listed.

“Temper, temper,” Blaise tsked with a rueful shake of his head.

“Clumsy oafs who wear their hearts on their sleeve,” Draco added with a smirk as the four Gryffindors in the room bristled.

“Oh, so it’s going to be like that, hmm?” Harry challenged, pulling away from Draco and glaring up at him.

“Definitely not brave,” Draco continued, as though Harry hadn’t said anything.

“Or gallant,” Pansy added with a firm nod.

“Or loyal,” Blaise continued. 

“Or daring,” Pansy went on.

“Or determined to make the world a better place,” Draco murmured, leaning over to kiss Harry on the top of his head. 

“Or able to keep their wits about them when they take on one of the world’s most powerful evil wizards at age eleven. And then again at twelve, and thirteen, and fourteen, and fifteen, and sixteen, and seventeen,” Blaise wrapped up, and I swear there were little tears sparkling in all those Gryffindor eyes.

“Sneaky,” Ron spoke up suddenly, grinning over at his work partner. 

“Power-hungry,” Harry piped up. 

“Evil,” Hermione added, looking each Slytherin in the eye in turn. 

“Fickle,” Ginny pronounced, wrinkling her nose distastefully.

“Judgemental,” Hermione spoke up again, raising an eyebrow at Draco.

“Arrogant,” Harry tossed out, smirking at each of the three Slytherins in turn.

“Definitely not the sort to calculate all possible outcomes before acting so as to find the best plan of action and not waste time,” Ron began again. 

“Definitely not frighteningly intelligent,” Hermione added. 

“Or unerringly loyal to those who deserve it,” Ginny said. 

“Definitely not ambitious,” Harry said shaking his head.

“Or goal-oriented,” Hermione agreed.

“Definitely not confident,” Ron added, although he almost broke character and sniggered because Draco, Blaise, and Pansy were, probably, three of the most confident people I knew of. 

“And definitely not cunning enough to fool the world’s most evil dark wizard into believing your were one of his most trusted supporters when you were actually a double agent,” Harry finished, somehow burrowing even further into Draco’s side. 

“Is anyone else starving?” Draco asked after a few moments' silence. “Because I am.” 

“There’s not enough room for all of us at the table,” I pointed out, but Draco only laughed and waved his hand towards the table, and an extra four seats appeared suddenly, the table lurching out to lengthen and add the extra place settings.

“That’s got to be convenient,” Malik commented.

“It is,” Draco assured him.

“So… is it just… I’m sorry, what’s that word?” Malik asked, looking round at the group. “You know, for people like us? Who aren’t magic?” 

“Muggle,” Hermione supplied helpfully. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he smiled gratefully. “Is it just Muggle lore that you need wands, then?” 

He stopped abruptly as Pansy leaned over and smacked Draco, then Harry. 

“You two!” she scolded, and I burst out laughing because Harry and Draco were both cowering and staring up at Pansy fearfully. 

Pansy had always had a way about her. 

“Get your wands and stop scaring the Muggles!” 

“We have wands,” Hermione assured us, pulling a slender piece of wood from her pocket. “Harry and Draco just don’t use them.”

“So it’s a choice?” I asked, frowning. “Like, how do you get cleared for that?” 

Maybe it was like taking a test when you got a license or something?

“You get cleared by being a ridiculously powerful witch or wizard, like those two over there,” Blaise drawled, pointing his wand at Harry and Draco. 

“So… the rest of you _need_ your wands to do magic?” I clarified.

“We can all do a few spells here and there, I suppose, but I don’t know of anyone else our age who just doesn’t need a wand, full stop,” Hermione explained with a shrug. 

I don’t know what Draco did to earn another smack from Pansy, but he flinched suddenly and rubbed at his hand.

“Ow,” he snapped. “Hades have mercy, Pans, I’ll use my wand, don’t worry.” 

Another stick came zooming around the corner and into his outstretched hand. 

“Is it less jarring for you if we use the wands?” he asked, glancing curiously at Malik and me. 

Malik looked kind of bewildered and shrugged but was saved by Micah piping up.

“Yes,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, that wandless shit you boys do is fucking impressive, but when I was getting used to being around witches and wizards, the wands were helpful ‘cause it gave your brain, like, a split-second realize that something cool was about to happen.”

“Here, Harry,” Ron said suddenly, lobbing something at Harry, who caught it without even moving from Draco’s side. 

Lightning-quick reflexes, that one, damn. 

“You can just wave it around and pretend it’s a wand,” Ron instructed, and the other witches and wizards all laughed. 

“Funny,” Harry retorted, frowning down at the pencil he now clutched in his fist, then back up at Ron. 

“But I do, technically, have a wand.” 

Yet another wand came zooming into his outstretched hand, and there were a few gasps. 

“Is that?” Hermione asked, leaning forward in her seat.

“How?” Blaise leaned forward, clearly intrigued as well. 

Ron, Ginny, and Pansy were also staring at the wand with rapt attention. 

I couldn’t see anything that was outwardly so special about it, it was just a long, pointy stick with a rounded sort of handle at the bottom, far as I was concerned. 

“This is a special wand, I take it?” Malik asked, smiling gently, standing and leaning closer to Harry and the wand.

Malik worked as a conservator at the British Museum, and so was always fascinated with objects and the tiny details most people would overlook. 

“Sort of,” Harry admitted, and Draco snorted. “It’s got… let’s just say a bit of a colorful past.”

“Here,” he offered, holding it out towards Malik, who reached for it, then hesitated.

“You’re fine,” Harry assured him. “You wouldn’t be able to do anything with it, anyway… no offence.” 

Malik grinned and took the wand from him, staring at it as he turned it in his hands, paying particular attention to the round knob that formed a sort of handle or grip at the bottom. 

“There are runes carved in here,” he stated, tracing them with a fingertip. 

“You can read runes?” Hermione piped up, looking very interested. 

“No,” Malik shook his head as he handed the wand back to Harry with a smile. “I specialize mainly in Islamic art, but one of my colleagues is obsessed with runes.”

“He works at the museum,” I bragged (because I was damn proud of him).

“Which one?” Hermione asked, leaning towards Malik with interest.

“ _The_ museum,” I joked. “So far as London pretends to care.”

“The British Museum?” Hermione sounded impressed. “That’s brilliant! What do you do?”

“I’m a conservator, but hoping to become a curator one of these days.” 

He crossed his fingers, then dropped his hands suddenly and looked guiltily at the witches and wizards around him.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Is that rude? 

“It just dawned on me that crossing our fingers might be taken from something that actually has meaning in your world.”

“You’re fine,” Blaise assured him with a grin. “But we appreciate the thought.” 

Draco swished his wand then towards the kitchen, and Malik and I turned our attention to the doorway where platters of food and several bottles of wine came floating out. 

Micah was right.

The wands helped so that I didn’t feel like a guppy gawping at something every two seconds. 

“We might as well just eat here. We’re all comfortable,” Draco was saying, another swish of his wand bringing a plate, wineglass, and cutlery to hover before each of us as the meal set itself out on the coffee table. 

He’d always been the fucking perfect host. 

And a foodie, I remembered, and thought we’d have to get him and Harry to visit us down in Brixton to eat some of the amazing ethnic cuisine they had down there. 

I had a brief flicker of doubt that maybe they wouldn’t want to leave the pristine boundaries of Mayfair for fucking Brixton, then remembered how Draco had loved visiting my family in South Boston and had loved the food, especially.

Actually, that’s probably the main reason I’d been so surprised to learn how fucking upper class the bastard was. 

He’d seemed so at home and comfortable sitting at our crowded dining table in our dingy little kitchen with its chipped laminate countertops, I would have never guessed that he’d grown up with a slew of servants serving him and his parents at a dining table that could easily seat twenty. 

His mom, Cissy, had explained it really well when I’d brought it up one day.

_“_ _I think it’s fair to say that Draco and I learned,_ _quite_ _late in life, that it’s the quality of the company that matters most, not the quality of the surroundings._

_“His father, unfortunately, never did.”_

I shook my head and turned my attention back to the meal sitting before me and followed the others in piling food onto my plate. 

There was a leek-crusted beef tenderloin with a side salad and this delicious-looking pile of thinly sliced potatoes that had been baked until wonderfully crispy. 

“When did you learn how to cook? Or is this all thanks to Harry?” I asked, taking a bite of the perfectly cooked leek-crusted beef, remembering how Draco and I used to burn shit in the kitchen and have to order takeout all the time. 

“Harry doesn’t need to cook. Unless he wants to,” Draco replied, and while I knew first-hand what a doting boyfriend Draco could be, there was something in his voice and gaze that told me his desire to make sure Harry didn’t have to cook unless he felt like it stemmed from something deeper.

And totally none of my business, but call my fucking interest piqued. 

“Sorry.” He apologized, shaking his head. “I… erm… I’ve always known how to cook.”

He paused and took a sip of wine.

“Just not without magic.”

“Hmm,” I mused with a grin. “And here I thought you were as big a mess in the kitchen as I was.” 

Everyone laughed, and we continued eating, a bottle of wine floating around to refill our glasses whenever necessary, and I had to admit, there were definitely some perks to attending a wizard dinner party.

“What’d you do for New Year’s?” Draco asked. “Did you two spend the holidays here or back in Boston?”

“Boston,” I replied as I cut another bite of roast. “How could we not?” 

Draco grinned, and Micah, Ginny, and Harry all nodded their agreement.

“Did you do the First Night parade?” Micah asked. “I missed that, with all the ice sculptures and then the fireworks!”

“And the Countdown on Copley,” Harry added. “I quite enjoyed that when we were there.” 

Ginny snorted.

“Yeah, because you were wrapped around some gorgeous bloke.”

“You’re _supposed_ to kiss someone at the stroke of midnight,” Harry defended himself and Draco chuckled as he leaned over to press a kiss to Harry’s temple. 

“What did you all do?” I asked. “Were you all here in London? Do they have a special wizard shindig or something?”

“Holy shit, do they ever,” Micah squealed. “You have to come next year…” 

She paused and glanced at Ginny curiously.

“I mean, are Muggles allowed… like this many of us?”

“The laws around the Statute of Secrecy are getting more and more lenient,” Blaise said with a shrug. “I doubt it’d be a problem.” “

“And there’s a growing movement to end the statute completely,” Pansy added. “The Wizengamot are about it constantly.” 

“Hear! Hear!” Ginny called out, raising her glass, and we all followed suit. 

“So, what’s so amazing about your wizard celebrations?” I asked, grinning as I swirled my glass of wine.

“Fireworks that dance and do crazy shit that our Muggle ones could never do,” Micah replied, eyes sparkling in excitement.

“And a thoroughly rousing betting game based on how often Draco and Harry be adorable,” Hermione added. “We all made a good amount from our bets.” 

“You all placed bets on these two?” I guffawed, pointing at the two of them.

"Of course! I’m still surprised they made it until midnight without Apparating back home,” Pansy replied. 

“What? And miss out on the midnight kiss?” Draco gasped in mock horror. “You should spend less time betting on what we do and more time finding yourself someone to give you a good-luck snog at midnight next year.” 

“As it so happens,” Pansy drawled back, “I had not just one, but _two_ good-luck kisses at midnight.” 

“What?” Blaise asked. “How? With whom?” 

“It’s not really that exciting, just Weasley’s two older brothers,” Pansy replied, draining her glass and holding it out for the bottle of wine to refill it. 

“You snogged my _brothers_?” Ron asked, grimacing as though wondering why anyone would want to do such a thing.

“Course I did,” Pansy replied, sipping her wine. “We were the only three losers standing there without a good-luck snog at midnight, so we helped each other out.”

“George is a bloody excellent kisser,” she continued, frowning in thought as she swirled her wine again. “Much better than I would have thought. He seems so jokey, you know?” 

Ron looked about as pleased as anyone would look about hearing such details about their brother, and Blaise tactfully turned the conversation turned to more mundane topics.

At least for them.

I was fascinated at the stories Blaise and Ron were telling about their job as Aurors, and a recent case they’d been assigned to. 

Some lady had just disappeared.

Vanished. 

“Who is she?” Pansy asked. “I mean, they’re sure she’s just disappeared and isn’t enjoying a long holiday?”

True, it was only a week after New Year. 

“No,” Blaise replied. “She’s disappeared. No one’s seen or heard from Melanie Duncan since this past Tuesday when she left work.” 

“Melanie Duncan?” Draco straightened suddenly and Harry nearly toppled over, sloshing some wine out of his glass. 

(He waved his hand, wand completely forgotten, and the splash disappeared immediately, I noted). 

“You know her?” Ron asked, leaning forward curiously. 

“Not really,” Draco frowned. “I spoke with her a bit on New Year’s Eve.

“She’s the one you rescued me from,” he added, staring pointedly at Pansy and Harry. “I’m sorry she’s disappeared, but she was dreadful at telling jokes.”

“Do you have any idea what the motive might be?” Hermione asked her husband, although her eyes darted over to meet Draco’s. 

“No,” he shook his head, and he and Blaise began sharing more about the case and another bottle of wine uncorked itself and began floating around.

“Um… no thanks,” Malik held up his hand as the bottle began to pour more wine into his glass. “I have to get up relatively early tomorrow.” 

“Oh! Don’t worry!” Pansy assured him with an affirmative shake of her head. “Drakey will send us all home with a generous amount of Hangover Potion.”

Excuse me?

What?

“Hangover potion?” I echoed. 

I’m sorry.

My ex-boyfriend knew how to make a Hangover potion?

Someone, please tell me this wasn’t what I thought it was and that I’d been missing out on this for years.

Draco’s smirk and giggle, however, told me it was exactly what I thought it was.

“You can make a potion that cures hangovers?” 

He nodded, and five glass jars came swirling around the corner to hover in front of us, and I reached out to pluck the jar in front of me from the air. 

“Just drink a good mug-full tomorrow morning when you stumble out of bed,” he advised. 

“Really?” Malik asked. 

“Really,” eight voices echoed back, and I grinned.

“Well, fucking pour up, then,” I encouraged, holding my glass out towards the bottle that was still hovering uncertainly between Malik and I. 

“Speaking of homebrews, Drakey,” Pansy began, almost as an afterthought. “Do you still brew your own naughty potions?”

She grinned over at him.

“The apple-flavoured one with the billywig essence, in particular?” 

I glanced at the other magical people's faces, but most of them looked just as confused as I did.

“Why?” Draco asked, swishing his wand again, and a chocolate tart came floating out as the rest of the dishes cleared themselves and whisked back to the kitchen.

“What do you mean, _why_?” Pansy asked, as Draco twitched his wand again and plates piled with slices of the chocolate-caramel tart sprinkled liberally with pecans floated themselves to us. 

Harry, I noticed, had a slice that was about three times the size of everyone else’s, and I figured he must’ve had a sweet tooth.

“I mean, why, if I _do_ still make my own lube, should I share it with _you_?” 

“I’m sorry, what? You make your own lube?” Ron demanded, lifting a forkful of gooey chocolate tart to his mouth.

“Sure,” Draco replied, taking a neat bite of his own dessert. “Don’t you?”

He frowned as though it hadn’t occurred to him that not everyone made their own lube, and even I had to grin as I remembered that I’d always been particularly impressed with Draco’s selection, although he’d always been secretive about where he got them. 

“So are you going to give me some or not?” Pansy asked.

“Who is he?” Draco asked, tilting his head and looking at Pansy with interest. “Do I know him? How long has this been going on?”

“How is this any of your business?” 

“It’s absolutely my business, seeing as you’re begging me for lube,” Draco countered.

“What’s so great about your lube?” Micah shot back, holding her glass out as the floating bottle of wine tilted to refill her. 

“Did Pansy say you brewed it with billywig essence?” Hermione asked, leaning towards Draco. “Are you _crazy_?”

“Just a drop,” Draco defended himself. “Just enough to heighten your senses a bit and make you tingle all over.” 

“Holy shit,” I gasped as more pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “I just thought you were slipping me molly.”

“ _What_?!” Ron looked extremely confused and Draco burst out laughing.

“Ron’s mum is named Molly.”

“It’s a Muggle drug,” he explained. “Makes you super-happy and heightens your senses… a lot like billywig essence, honestly…”

He frowned over at me.

“And you should’ve been upset if you thought I was slipping you fucking molly. That’s not alright.”

“Yeah, I would tell myself that, but then it just felt so goddamn good…” I grinned.

“But, I mean, if you’re going to be handing it out, Malik and I will take some.” 

“Me too!” Micah spoke up. “You adopted me, so you have to give me some, right?” 

Draco rolled his eyes and a little vial careened around the corner to topple into Micah’s lap, and Blaise suddenly leapt to his feet and ran around the corner, down the hallway. 

“Fucking arsehole!” Draco was yelling, waving his wand towards the wall. 

“Ow! Fuck you!” I heard Blaise shouting and, next second, he was careening back into the living room, an array of glass vials cradled in his arms. 

“Lube for you,” he shouted, lobbing a vial at Malik and me.

“And lube for you,” he continued, tossing another at Ron and Hermione.

“And lube for you,” another vial landed in front of Pansy.

“And lube for me,” he held up the last vial with a satisfied smile. “Worth every stinging hex you threw at me, mate.” 

“You fucking arse,” Draco muttered affectionately, and I realised that Draco wasn’t actually upset at his friend. 

“You still haven’t told my why the fuck you suddenly need good lube,” Draco added. 

Pansy rolled her eyes.

“My vibe and my vagina have an incredible date for later this week and I wanted to be prepared,” she drawled.

“I could give you _all_ the details if you’d like, but I just assumed you wouldn’t be interested.”

Draco frowned.

“I’m going to make that taste like fucking boiled broccoli, bitch,” he threatened and Pansy just threw her head back and laughed.

“No!” she shrieked in mock protest. “I like the apple! Please tell me it still tastes like apple!”

“That batch is treacle,” he replied, which, for some reason, made everyone except for Malik and I burst out in laughter.

And Harry, I noticed, who was blushing around a mouthful of his dessert and making it a point not to look anyone in the eye. 

“Does Harry have a bit of a liking for treacle?” Malik teased, winking over at Harry good-naturedly.

“Is the ocean wet?” Blaise replied laughing, and Harry just glared back at all of us even as he shovelled the last of his chocolate-caramel dessert into his mouth. 

The evening continued through several more bottles of wine, and it was pretty damn late by the time Malik and I set off on our way home with our goodies in hand. 

“So… want to show me what’s so awesome about this naughty homebrew Draco sent us home with?” Malik asked, pulling me towards him, wrapping his arms around me as his mouth sought mine.

That was a stupid question, I thought as we stumbled the short distance from the front door to the bedroom. 

It was quite sometime later when Malik and I finally collapsed against each other in a sweaty, tangled heap.

“Holy shit,” he whispered almost dazedly, hands still trailing gently across my back.

“Yeah,” I replied, not really able to say much more at the moment as my eyelids grew heavier and heavier and sleep finally took over. 

My last thought before drifting off was that I was quite glad Draco was a part of my life again. 

***

_Friday Evening_

_15 January 2010_

_Draco’s POV_

_“Every Hero becomes a bore at last.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson_

“I would have bought this place for this bloody front door alone,” Harry murmured, staring at the intricate stained glass doorway to the Zabini’s Kensington home, and I took a second to appreciate it through the eyes of someone who… well, who hadn’t seen it a million times. 

“Blaise thought it would remind Anaïs of all the stained glass in the cathedrals and buildings in France,” I explained as I rang the doorbell, listening for the sound of pattering feet. 

It was Blaise who answered the door, swinging it wide open and greeting Harry and me with a grin that was equally wide.

Harry’s eyes immediately fastened on the almost ridiculous number of framed photos showing mostly Hugo and Manon doing any number of adorable things lining the entryway’s walls. 

“Ron and Hermione are already here,” Blaise informed us, watching as Harry’s gaze moved to our left to take in the reception room, where Blaise and Anaïs’ school trunks sat in a neat stack behind the tan-coloured leather sofa and little Hugo’s toy motorcycle sat in the corner. 

You could make out the three Moorish arches that led to the family room just beyond, and Harry’s eyes took in the intricate wooden screens that covered the outer two arches, flanked by ornate Moroccan sconces that I knew had come from Blaise’s father’s side of the family. 

“Tonton Draco!” I heard Hugo’s footsteps as he thundered down the stairs, eyes wide and excited as he rounded the corner for his final descent into the entryway.

He stopped so suddenly he almost fell and toppled his way down the remainder of the staircase, jaw-dropping and eyes widening to an almost comical degree as he noticed his favourite Quidditch player standing by my side.

He crept, almost nervously, down the stairs and immediately sidled up against Blaise’s left leg, his little hand reaching up to fist itself in the hem of Blaise’s suit as he continued to stare up at Harry with a mixture of fear and awe. 

“What?” I demanded in French, kneeling down and holding my arms out. “No hug for me?” 

Hugo’s eyes didn’t even budge slightly from Harry as he shook his head dazedly. 

Blaise turned to kneel beside his son, speaking to him in Italian, the only word I recognised being “cucciolo,” which I knew was his pet name for Hugo, although it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Blaise was asking him if he was okay. 

Hugo nodded, albeit uncertainly, and his eyes were still focused solely on Harry, who was standing awkwardly beside me, glancing uncertainly from me, to Blaise, and then Hugo. 

“Hello,” he said, finally deciding to focus on Hugo. 

He knelt down and grinned at Hugo.

“I’m Harry. How are you?” 

Hugo gave a little gasp and looked up at his father, then back at Harry, eyes wide. 

“Well, go on, then,” Blaise encouraged, still knelt at his son’s side, one hand raising to rub reassuring circles on his back as Hugo continued to glance between his father and Harry. 

“I didn’t know you speak English,” Hugo accused, head spinning to look at Blaise suddenly. 

“No?” Blaise asked, genuinely surprised, and Hugo shook his head.

“I’m sorry, _cucciolo_ ,” he apologised, pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead. “This is turning out to be quite the night of surprises for you, hmm?” 

Hugo nodded, still peering up at Harry out of the corner of his eye.

“I thought you would be excited,” Blaise continued, kissing the top of Hugo’s head. “Should I have told you Harry was coming over? I’m sorry, _cucciolo_ _._ ”

“Yeah,” Hugo agreed, nodding, eyes still fixed on Harry, his hand curling into the collar of Blaise’s shirt as though seeking reassurance. 

“Do you think you can answer Harry’s question?” Blaise asked kindly, reaching up to tangle his fingers in his son’s hair. “How are you?” 

“I’m… fine…” Hugo stammered, sounding terrified and anything but fine, and I simultaneously wanted to giggle at the sight of a speechless Hugo and rush to his other side and offer him more support. 

“Your Uncle Draco’s told me you’re quite the flyer,” Harry tried again, smiling. “Maybe we can go for a little fly later tonight?”

Instead of having the effect Harry had hoped, little Hugo gave a frightened little gasp and clutched at Blaise a little more tightly.

“No!” he cried out, almost frantic. “I need to practice more!” 

“Oh!,” Harry agreed, nodding. “Yeah, sure, of course. Maybe next time, then?”

“Okay,” Hugo agreed nervously, sounding as though flying with Harry “next time” was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. 

He turned to Blaise again, who continued to encourage him in Italian, far as I could tell.

Hugo nodded seriously, eyes still huge, then turned back to Harry.

“ _Qu’est-ce que vous_ _voulez_ _boire_ _?”_ he asked, still sounding very uncertain. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry replied with a rueful smile. “I don’t speak French.” 

“You don’t?” Hugo looked extremely puzzled, and it dawned on me that most of the adults he knew spoke French. 

“No,” Harry admitted, grimacing, and Hugo gave a tiny smile. 

“Why not?” he asked, brow furrowing.

“Erm… well, the people who raised me didn’t teach it to me,” he explained, and Hugo’s mega-watt smile turned on almost immediately.

“I can teach you!” he declared, all of his shyness, apparently, disappearing upon learning that Harry didn’t speak French.

“Would you, really?” Harry asked excitedly, and I honestly had no idea if he was genuinely excited at the prospect of learning French or if he was just entertaining Hugo. 

“Yes,” Hugo agreed, nodding enthusiastically. 

“Come,” he added, beckoning Harry forward with his hand, and Harry followed his instructions obediently, standing and striding over to Hugo and Blaise then kneeling before the four-year-old.

Hugo leaned forward, cupping his hands around Harry’s ear, whispering in that earnest way that only children can do, all of his shyness melted away so that he could tend to this most important mission of teaching Harry French. 

Harry grinned, then turned to glance up at me. 

“ _Attends!_ ” Hugo cried out suddenly, one hand reaching out to grasp at Harry’s sleeve. 

“I mean, wait!” he repeated in English, and Harry turned back to focus his attention on Hugo.

“Say it back to me,” Hugo instructed. “In my ear. So I can be sure you’re saying it correctly.” 

“Oh,” Harry agreed, nodding seriously. “You’re right. That’s a brilliant idea.” 

He leant forward, cupping his own hands around Hugo’s ear and whispered something, which, according to Hugo’s assertive nod, must have passed muster. 

Harry turned his head towards me once again and grinned.

“ _Je_ _t’aime_ ,” he declared, in surprisingly passable French, and I couldn’t help but beam and reply:

“ _Je t’aime, aussi_.” 

I knew full well Harry could have figured out what I’d said, but he turned his attention back to Hugo, whose little chest puffed up importantly.

“He said that he loves you, too,” he informed Harry. 

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Harry sighed, pretending to collapse in relief. “I’d been wondering.” 

Hugo giggled and grinned down at Harry knowingly.

“I think you already knew,” he told him, and Harry grinned up at him.

“I had a feeling,” he admitted. “But it was nice to have it confirmed.” 

We made our way down the long hallway that ran alongside the reception and family room, passing through the Zabini’s gorgeous, gigantic kitchen and dining area — honestly, I was positively jealous every time I came over and had considered trading the flat for a proper house on several occasions — to join Ron, Hermione, and Anaïs in the garden. 

It was a huge garden — and another reason I sometimes considered buying an actual house with its own outdoor space — and Manon was entertaining the three adults by trying to zoom around on Hugo’s old toddler broom.

She was barely two, and kept leaning to her right and toppling off, much to the amusement of the adults as she would frown and sit up, hand grasping for the broom to shoot into her outstretched hand to try once more. 

“Harry, maybe she could use a lesson or two?” Hermione suggested as Manon toppled off once more.

“I’d love to,” Harry replied earnestly, glancing at Anaïs and Blaise as though asking for permission.

As though there was anyone safer to trust with your child on a broom.

Honestly, Potter, I thought with a roll of my eyes. 

I watched, sipping my whiskey as Anaïs introduced Manon to Harry, and Harry climbed onto the broom with her, kicking off gently and tucking his feet up around the back of the broom so they wouldn’t drag on the ground, clearly taking notes from Sirus’ memory shared with us on Samhain. 

He leaned forward, whispering in her ear and adjusting her grip and position on the broom as though he gave toddler flying lessons all day long, and they circled the yard, Manon giving a little squeal of delight as the broom registered her “proper” stance and picked up speed as it circled the yard. 

Hugo came running out, demanding to know why Harry was flying so slowly, and Anaïs knelt down to remind him that he was flying a toddler broom with his little sister, and Hugo nodded approvingly. 

“She _did_ need a little help,” he admitted with a firm nod, sounding and looking like an absolute miniature of his father that I couldn’t hide my grin. 

Neither could Ron, apparently, whose blue eyes slid over to meet mine with a mirthful grin of his own. 

We sat in the garden, Harry eventually joining us as Manon and Hugo continued to tumble and play, the entire garden charmed to keep us warm despite the January chill, sipping mint tea and nibbling at olives marinated in a fiery-garlicky pesto sauce and zaalouk, a Moroccan dip made with mashed eggplants, olive oil, tomatoes, and lots of herbs and spices. 

I remembered the first time Blaise had made it after having connected with his father’s family in Morocco following the war and thinking that I’d achieved tastebud Nirvana. 

We sat there, happily chatting and munching for a good half-hour before Blaise frowned down at his mobile.

“Do you know where Pansy is?” he asked. “Wanted to wait for her to arrive before dinner.” 

She was the only one missing, seeing as Micah and Ginny had decided to stay in Dufftown and Ben was working. 

“No idea,” I replied. 

“She’s not responding to texts and her Floo’s closed,” Blaise explained. “I don’t know about you lot, but I’m ready to eat more than olives and zaalouk.” 

“Fine with me,” I replied, glancing around at Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Anaïs.

“Shouldn't we wait?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Blaise replied, standing. “She’s nearly an hour late. I doubt she’d be upset when, and if, she does show up.” 

A few minutes later, we were seated around the dining table with a steaming bowl of chicken tagine heaped over fluffy couscous and a small side of the delicately diced tomato salad that accompanied nearly every meal in Morocco. 

We were nearly halfway through the meal when the doorbell rang, and Blaise stood.

“Anyone care to bet that’s _not_ Pansy?” 

Seeing as there were no takers, he smirked and turned towards the front door, returning with Pansy a few moments later. 

“About time,” I drawled, sipping the hearty rosé Anaïs had brought from her home in Provence, and smirking at my friend. 

She rolled her eyes as she took her seat, graciously accepting the glass offered to her.

“You would not believe the bloody work demanded of me, preparing for that idiot William’s trial,” she sighed. 

“But fear not, we’re going to get that mother…” her eyes darted towards Hugo and Manon, both listening with rapt attention. 

“That mother-stupid dummy,” she finished with a satisfied nod, lifting a forkful of tagine to her mouth.

“Mother-stupid dummy!” Manon parroted immediately, smiling adoringly at Pansy, causing several of us to giggle and Blaise to shoot Pansy a pretend glare. 

Dinner continued, us grown-ups talking about “very boring things,” according to Hugo, and by the time Anaïs floated a platter of baklava to the table, Hugo seemed to have gotten over his initial fear of the great Quidditch Player, Harry Potter. 

“You’re kind of just like my mum and dad,” he announced, chomping down on a square of baklava, staring at Harry with interest. 

“Unfortunately, I fear I’m probably not even half as interesting as either of them,” Harry replied ruefully, selecting his own square of pastry and lifting it to his lips. 

Hugo stared at Harry for a moment, then gave a perfectly executed sideways glance to his parents at either end of the table.

Then back at Harry, a look of disdain on his face that was pure Blaise. 

“Maybe we can fly the next time you come over,” Hugo said finally, the intimidation of Harry’s international fame having finally been smashed to smithereens.

“I’d love to,” Harry replied, beaming.


	3. A Weekend in Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco whisks Harry away for a romantic weekend. 
> 
> I mean, really, that's all you need to know prior to reading. 
> 
> I'd started then realised I was writing a VERY long chapter.
> 
> And it's a VERY long chapter... but the actual Valentine's Day is yet to come! 
> 
> As always, love comments, and I will be posting on Wattpad with photos!

**Work, Interrupted**

_Friday Late Morning_

_12 February 2010_

_Harry’s POV_

“Oi, Harry!” Coach McLeod bellowed, and I halted mid-spin, hand clasping the practice Snitch to glance down at him, turning my broom as I began my descent towards him.

“Yeah?” I asked, landing smoothly, wondering what he wanted.

“Head to the locker room, you're done for the day,” he instructed. 

“What? Why?” I frowned at him, not sure why he’d be sending me home early. 

“Lover Boy’s here to whisk you away for the weekend. He’s been planing it for a while now, but told me he wanted to surprise you.”

I ignored the catcalls from the team and focused my attention towards where McLeod’s thumb was jerking to see Draco standing there, grinning at me. 

“Go on,” McLeod grinned. “Get outta here.” 

“Draco!” I exclaimed, tossing my broom aside and running to him, clasping my arms around his neck as he grabbed me round the waist and twirled us in a circle, setting me back on my feet with a brief kiss on the mouth.

The team, apparently, thought this was not nearly enough PDA and continued to catcall and demand more, swooping down and around us on their brooms. 

Draco responded by pulling me closer for a thoroughly indecent snog and managed to reach his right hand out to deliver a crystal-clear message to the team with one finger. 

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, grinning up at him excitedly, hands playing with his hair, leaning in to rub my nose up against his, the team and all their comments be damned. 

“You’ll see,” he assured me, kissing me again, much to the excitement of the team, judging by their whoops and cheers.

Honestly, I was a bit glad to get away for the weekend. 

Nevermind that it was Valentine’s.

The public had not been the most accepting of my newly disclosed relationship, and while the team had stood steadfastly behind me, the jeers and jibes from the stands were starting to take their toll.

Some alone time with Draco — somewhere where people didn’t know who we were — sounded like just the ticket.

***

_A few minutes later  
_  
 _The London Flat  
_  
 _Harry’s_ _POV_

“We’re going to Paris?” I asked excitedly, not even trying to hide the delighted little bounce I gave as I practically leapt into Draco’s arms.

We’d Apparated home only moments before and I'd seen the travel brochure with the Eiffel Tower on the front and had nearly squealed with joy. 

I’d held back. 

But just barely. 

“Of course, silly,” Draco replied, wrapping me in a firm hug and kissing the top of my head. “Where else would anyone go for their first Valentine’s Day weekend together?”

“I know, but… Paris?” I knew I had a silly, dreamy look on my face and Draco couldn’t help but roll his eyes at me.

“So… go pack your bag. The sooner you finish, the sooner we can leave,” he advised, kissing me again before shoving me playfully towards the bedroom.

“What do I even pack?” I wondered, stumbling down the hallway, turning to give Draco a questioning glance. “What do I need for my first weekend in Paris?

“Do I need a suit, or are jumpers and trousers fine?”

“Merciful Merlin, Potter,” he sighed, pinching his nose in exasperation. “You are so damned lucky I’ve already packed your stupid bag for you.”

“You did?!” I asked, practically skipping down the hallway and leaping into his arms once more.

“Really? I don’t have to think or worry about whether I’ve packed the right things?”

“Nope,” he replied, setting me down on the console table, pulling my legs more tightly around his waist. “You just have to put on what I say to put on when I say to put it on.”

He paused, then grinned down at me.

“And take off what I say to take off when I say so, too.” 

“Okay,” I agreed, pulling him down for a kiss and scowling up at him when he pulled away far too quickly.

“We’ve got a Portkey to catch, Potter,” he reminded me, stepping out of my embrace and tugging my hand gently so that I slid easily off the table and stood next to him.

“The next time I’m kissing you, we’ll be in Paris,” he added with a grin.

Draco continued to pull me further across the reception and pointed at the travel brochure.

“Ready?” he asked, grinning down at me.

“Absolutely.”

We reached out and grabbed the brochure, and, next second, found ourselves spit out in the centre of a square that even I recognised as Parisian.

We were standing on a little raised curb in the middle of an apartment-lined square, four trees lining each corner, and an ornate street lantern standing in the centre. 

Draco gave a little cough, and suddenly the trees began to rise, creating a birdcage of roots around us, the ground around the streetlamp descending with us into the French Ministry. 

“Sorry, love,” Draco whispered, kissing my temple. “I have to pick up a file for work after we get our passports stamped, and then we’ll be on our way.”

I couldn’t even think to be upset that Draco had turned a work mission into a romantic weekend, and just stretched up to kiss him soundly on the mouth.

“Of course. I’m just glad to be here.” 

It took mere seconds for the witch in the atrium to stamp our passports and point Draco in the direction he needed while I waited. 

He returned about fifteen minutes later, grinning and holding his arm out to me.

“Shall we, Mr Potter?” he asked, unshrinking our weekender bags. 

“We’d look a bit odd walking into a Muggle hotel without any luggage,” he explained at my puzzled look, and I couldn’t help but grin up at him as I grabbed my bag. 

“Let’s go.” 

Draco pulled me up alongside him, and next second we were in a little passageway with a giant wrought-iron gate reading “Villa Ballu” in front of us and a tree-lined courtyard behind us.

Draco grasped my hand and tugged me along towards the entry, our weekenders clutched in our hands, as we turned left onto the street.

I couldn’t help but stare up at the elegant buildings, some with wrought-iron balconies, others with that iconic “French” mix of red brick outlined by large slabs of white brick as we walked down the street.

We made a right at the next intersection, and I gasped because there was no doubt now that I was in Paris. 

I continued to gaze up at the distinctly Parisian buildings, hand tucked firmly in Draco’s, knowing I wouldn’t need to pay attention to anything else as we traipsed our way through the gorgeous French capital.

We passed by a leafy park full of children playing and couldn’t help but grin and imagine both Blaise and Anaïs’ and Bill and Fleur’s children playing here before we crossed another large intersection, continuing down another little street, me still gazing upwards with rapt attention, taking in the stone buildings with their wrought-iron balconies and slate-blue roof tiles.

Draco might have been rolling his eyes at me or smiling down at me affectionately. 

Who knew?

Who cared?

I was in bloody Paris!

With my boyfriend.

For Valentine’s Day weekend.

Draco stopped suddenly, and I glanced around uncertainly.

“Why’d we stop?” I asked, brow furrowing.

“We’re here,” he explained, gesturing at the nondescript doorway.

The doorway was framed by two exquisite lanterns flickering red lights, and I frowned up at Draco.

“Red lights?” I asked. “Doesn’t that mean…”

Draco just laughed and pulled the door open, ushering me inside.

“Once upon a time, the Maison Souquet was, indeed, a house of ill-repute.

“A very high-class one.”

My jaw dropped as we walked through the doorway.

“Now, it’s just a beautifully romantic hotel,” Draco continued, smiling down at me as I took in the richly coloured panels and marble of the lobby. 

I felt as though I'd just stumbled into the Sultan’s palace from Arabian Nights.

I continued to gawp at the decor, taking in the ornate golden Moorish arches that led to a positively swoon-worthy lounge area decked out with sumptuous burgundy-coloured furniture and more lavish Moorish decor all softly lit by an extravagant crystal chandelier that immediately caused one to envision courtesans sipping champagne as they met the wealthy gentlemen visiting the maison nearly a century ago. 

Draco was at the sleek black check-in counter straight ahead, speaking quietly to the receptionist, and he turned to smile at me, still taking in the beauty of the place.

He continued speaking with the receptionist in French, reaching out an arm to wrap around me, drawing me close and pausing to press a kiss just above my ear, before returning to the check-in process. 

The gentleman checking us in smiled at both of us, and another, slightly older, gentleman stepped forward, he and Draco exchanging a few words of greeting as Draco handed him his bag.

The gentleman turned and looked at me expectantly.

I stared back for a few moments, then noticed his hand held out towards my own weekender, and I started.

“Oh!” I gasped, handing him my bag. “Erm… thank you. 

“I mean… _merci beaucoup_.” 

French lessons with Hugo were coming along swimmingly. 

The gentleman smiled.

“I can speak English, if you would prefer?” he asked, looking from me, then back at Draco expectantly. 

“Yes, that might be a good idea,” Draco agreed, smirking over at me, and I nearly stuck my tongue out at him, then realised that probably wasn’t something I should do while stood in the lobby of such a fancy hotel. 

“I am Pierre-Yves,” the gentleman continued, and I already knew there was no way I’d ever pronounce his name correctly and hoped he wouldn’t mind me butchering it. 

“I will be your butler during your stay,” he continued as he turned towards the stairwell, and Draco placed his hand at the small of my back, urging me to follow.

Butler?

Then I nearly snorted with laughter, because of _course,_ Draco had a personal butler when he travelled. 

The stairwells and hallways leading to the rooms were painted a deep plum colour, the glossy wood floors beneath laid with scarlet carpeting, which, honestly, would have sounded like a dreadful clash if someone had described it to me, but it worked, somehow.

I inhaled deeply, breathing in the somehow sultry scent of the place.

It reminded me a bit of Draco’s cologne, but a tad sweeter. 

“Do they pump your cologne into this entire place?” I asked as we continued to climb the circular stairs, and Draco laughed.

“No,” he assured me. “But they do have a special scent in all the public spaces. Kind of contributes to the mood, doesn’t it?” 

“Mmm,” I nodded, inhaling again, taking in the flowery notes mixed with something sweet and earthy, that I realised was tobacco. 

Pierre-Yves paused at the top of the next stairwell and turned to smile at us.

“This way, please,” he gestured down a hallway lined with sleek, matte black doors with golden accents, stopping finally before one bearing the name “La Castiglione.”

“Each room is named for a famous courtesan,” Pierre-Yves explained, unlocking the door and swinging the door open and stepping aside. 

My jaw dropped yet again.

“Oh… Draco,” I gasped, stepping cautiously into the room, eyes wide as I took in the surroundings. 

We were in a short entryway, painted in a muted smokey grey, that opened into the most exquisite sitting area I’d seen in my life.

Yes, including the manor. 

The walls were covered in a sumptuous lavender-grey and burgundy damask with a luxurious scarlet velvet sofa set against one wall, facing the bedroom. 

The double-doorway leading to the bedroom was framed by a simple black archway with gold accents, and the walls were similarly covered in a rich burgundy damask, the bed laid with crisp white linens.

I could make out the sleek black and gold bathroom just off the side of the bedroom, and a closet almost the size of _my_ portion of our closet at home just beyond the sitting room. 

“This is…” I began, still turning slowly, taking in all the surroundings. 

“Do you like?” Draco asked, one arm wrapping around me, the other tilting my face up for a kiss.

“Of _course_ I like,” I replied, tangling my fingers in his hair and kissing him again. 

“I will leave you two now,” Pierre-Yves spoke up, exiting the closet, where he’d obviously just set our luggage, and setting the room key down on the small table beside the sofa.

He didn’t seem the least bit phased by catching us mid-snog, and I realised that, working in a hotel like this, he probably caught couples mid-snog quite often. 

“Please, let me know if there is anything you need,” he added with a brief nod before he turned and strode out of the room, leaving Draco and me alone. 

“Of course you’d need a butler,” I chided, still pressing little kisses into his mouth. 

“Every room here has one,” he protested weakly, reaching up to gently unhook my arms from around his neck so he could sit on the sofa, smiling as his eyes trailed over me. 

I loved when he did that. 

When he looked at me like that.

Like I was a work of art or something that he had to take in centimetre by centimetre.

I didn’t think it would ever get old. 

“What does a butler even do, anyway?” I asked, sitting beside him, drawing up one knee so I could turn to face him. 

Draco frowned.

“What do you mean, what does a butler _do_?”

“Exactly that,” I retorted. “Like, when he said to let him know if we need anything. What did he mean?” 

Draco was doing that thing where he stared at me as though I’d sprouted another head, then he frowned off to the side, and I just knew the wheels in his head were spinning in overdrive.

He repeated this a few times, staring at me, then off to his left. 

Apparently, his response required a lot of thought.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said finally. “I mean, you genuinely… like… I suppose you’ve never had a butler.”

I rolled my eyes. 

Honestly, I forgot how fucking posh Draco was sometimes. 

“It’s just… I mean, you have Kreacher!” he defended himself, and I raised a brow back at him.

He knew damned well my history with Kreacher. 

“It’s hard to explain _what_ a butler does,” he sighed. “They do… everything.” 

“Everything?” I repeated, still entirely unsure as to what “everything” meant, and pretty damned sure I didn’t want Pierre-Yves doing “everything” for me this weekend. 

“Or nothing,” Draco continued, shrugging, sounding as though this should have been obvious. 

Oh. 

Right.

Well, that cleared that right up.

“Unpack your luggage, bring you a drink before dinner, draw a bath, make dinner reservations, turndown the sheets in the evening, fetch you a box of your favourite chocolates, have your coffee ready in the morning. 

“You know, _everything_ ,” Draco began. 

“Or leave-me-the-fuck-alone-because-I-plan-on-spending-the-entire-weekend-ploughing-my-boyfriend-into-the-mattress-so-bugger-off…

_“Nothing_ ,” he finished with a smirk, and I couldn’t help licking my lips in anticipation as I glanced over at the bed. 

“I mean, we could probably ask Pierre-Yves to bring us some food at some point,” I reasoned, and Draco grinned at me.

“Might be a good idea.”

“So… you can really ask them for anything?” I asked. 

I know, I know.

I was in, quite possibly, the most romantic hotel in bloody Paris with my ridiculously sexy boyfriend, and there were at least a million other Draco-related things my mind should have been focused on, but I still couldn’t get over this butler business. 

“I mean, you can’t ask him to do anything illegal, or against hotel policy, obviously,” Draco answered, rolling his eyes.

“What are his hours?”

I glanced around for a little card or booklet that hotel rooms usually have listing room service hours and such. 

Draco was frowning at me again.

“Hours?”

“Yeah, like, when does he start work, and when does he end?” 

“You… call him when you need him,” he said, back to sounding as though he had no idea what I was asking. 

“ _Whenever_ you need him,” he clarified, as though my meaning had suddenly become clear to him. 

“What, even if it’s, like, two am, and we decide we need cherry-flavoured lube or something dumb like that?” 

Draco snorted.

“Harry, we’re in Montmartre, just around the corner from the Moulin Rouge,” he drawled. “I’d be willing to bet Pierre-Yves has fetched any number of odd sex-related items at two am.”

I giggled a bit at that and admitted that it was probably true. 

“Half the guests here are probably romanticising the era and the trade, acting out their fantasies of either having or being a kept woman,” he added with a smirk, and I laughed, flinging myself back on the sofa, arms tossed casually up around my head in what I hoped was a sultry pose. 

“So,” I breathed, kicking my trainers off and stretching out further, placing my feet in Draco’s lap, tracing gently along his inner thigh with the tip of my toe. 

“Is that why you’ve brought me here, Mr Malfoy?” I asked. “To be your naughty, little, paid trick for the evening?” 

Draco’s eyes flashed as his gaze slowly raked over my body, tongue darting out to lick at his lips, and I couldn’t help but smirk.

I’d finally realised that it didn’t matter that my imagination could never match Draco’s. 

His was so vivid, all I had to do was plant a seed, and it would take off, the look in his eyes letting me know that it was working just as well as if I’d painted the entire scenario in deliciously naughty words myself. 

“And if it were?” he asked, eyes still trailing over me appreciatively, right hand sliding gently up my left calf, urging my thighs apart as he shifted to nestle himself between them, body sliding up against mine until our eyes were level, his mouth mere centimetres from mine. 

“You couldn’t afford me,” I replied, glancing nonchalantly off to the side, Merlin only knows how I’d managed to resist leaning up and submitting to him with that goddamned mouth of his right there within reach. 

“Course I couldn’t,” he agreed, leaning down to nuzzle and nibble at my neck, and I couldn’t help but slide my eyes back towards him questioningly. 

“You’re priceless, Potter,” he added, tilting his head back up to capture my mouth for the briefest of kisses. 

“But let’s pretend, for a moment, shall we?” he continued before I could get too starry-eyed over the pure sweetness of his comment, rising slowly so that he was sitting upright, tugging and arranging me so that I now straddled his lap. 

“That it’s a hundred years ago, and you and I are here, in this lovely room, this lovely body of yours my entertainment for the evening… should you accept my offer, of course,” he added between kisses because you can bet I was leaning down to press kisses into his mouth now that I could feel his cock straining against my arse and his hands trailing patterns of encouragement across my back. 

“Did they have male courtesans?” I asked, frowning. 

He also pulled away, frowning in thought, and I briefly wondered why I kept distracting him when there was such a comfortable-looking bed just begging to be shagged on barely two metres away.

“I’ve no idea,” he admitted. “Maybe? Probably?”

“They would have had to, I suppose,” I mused. “It’s not like being gay’s a new phenomenon.” 

I was about to lean back in to kiss him when his frown deepened.

“What?” 

“Actually, the reality was probably pretty shitty,” he muttered. “If we’d actually lived a hundred years ago.” 

“Well aware,” I assured him. “Still pretty shitty, honestly.” 

“I’d be married to some poor, naïve girl who’d have no idea why her husband has no interest in her and prefers to spend all of his time travelling and insisting on taking along his favourite valet,” he continued, smiling up at me wryly.

“Oh,” I countered, pretending to glare down at him. “So, just like that, I’ve been demoted from priceless courtesan to your damned servant, hmm?”

“No, that’s not it at all,” he protested, hands stilling on my hips, urging me to continue grinding down against him.

“You’d be essential to my existence,” he insisted, and I managed to pause grinding and kissing to roll my eyes down at him. 

“I wouldn’t even be able to get undressed without your assistance,” he continued, voice dropping into that “pure sex” register that drove me mad, and I couldn’t help groaning and leaning in for a proper kiss. 

“Whatever would I do without you, hmm, Potter?” he demanded softly, fingers threading through my hair to tug my head back just short of my goal. 

Wanker.

“Be very tense, probably,” I replied, trailing my fingers lightly down his torso, raising up slightly so I could palm the bulge forming in his trousers. 

“With no one to help you relax after a long day of travel,” I added, falling almost immediately into the role as I leant down to lick gently at his upturned mouth and added a tad more pressure with my palm. 

“My job is to relax you,” I continued as he groaned, arms wrapping around me as he deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue and swirling it into my mouth. 

“Make sure you’re completely stress free,” I added, pulling back even as I continued to gently massage Draco’s cock through his trousers. 

“That there’s not a drop of tension left in you when I’m finished.” 

I slid, then, from his lap to kneel before him, staring up as he gazed back down at me, and I could almost see the transformation take place.

From my Draco to Lord Malfoy, as our little game required, and I’d be a goddamned liar if I said that didn’t send a shudder of desire through me. 

Merlin, what was it about Draco being an absolute dominating snot that got me so fucking wanton? 

“Then you’d better get started, hadn’t you?” he asked silkily, threading one hand idly through my hair. 

“Yes, my Lord,” I replied, almost breaking character and smirking when I saw the almost imperceptible gasp he gave.

“Where should I start?” 

Draco, unsurprisingly, was quick to recover. 

“I’d imagine you should start by undressing me,” he drawled lazily, hand slipping from my hair to rest on his thigh, blue-grey eyes staring down at me, one brow lifted gently. 

“As you wish, my Lord,” I replied, reaching up to unfastening the buttons on his shirt, not quite sure if I was playing the role right, but figuring I was on the right path. 

I glanced up at Draco to see those incredible eyes of his staring up at me, almost questioningly. 

“Your wish is my command,” I continued, slipping more buttons from their buttonholes on his shirt, wondering briefly what I should do when I got to the end of the row of buttons. 

I decided to go with coaxing him forward so I could slip the jacket and shirt from his shoulders, reaching forward to nuzzle at that sensitive point where jawline met neck as I did so. 

It had the intended effect, as Draco leaned forward, seeking more contact, and I smirked down at him as I stood, his shirt and jacket in hand. 

“Let me hang these up,” I insisted, heading towards the closet. “We wouldn’t want any of your fancy clothes to get wrinkled.” 

I was pretty sure those weren’t words any _real_ valet would have said, but, hell, I wasn’t a valet, and, from the way Draco’s eyes followed me religiously, I was, clearly, doing an okay job upholding my end of the charade. 

“These trousers look a bit tight,” I observed, striding out of the closet and kneeling before him once more, sliding my palms up his thighs towards the straining bulge, and I couldn’t help licking my lips in anticipation. 

“I think we ought to get you out of them,” I continued, eyes flicking up towards Draco’s as I began to undo the button fly fastening his trousers. “And into something more comfortable.” 

I worked slowly, relishing in the heat and pulse of Draco’s cock against my fingers as they continued to slip the buttons from their buttonholes. 

“You know,” I added, smirking up at him once all the buttons were freed and I began to tug the trousers and his pants down past his hips, that mouth-watering fucking cock of his springing free and taunting me. “Like my mouth.” 

I leant forward to lap gently at the head of his cock, then stood, smirking to myself as Draco groaned. 

“Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?” he demanded, straightening as he turned towards me, eyes flashing. “I didn’t give you permission to leave.” 

I paused and glanced back down at him, eyes wide, the picture of fucking innocence, if I do say so myself. 

“Oh,” I replied, biting my lip slightly and holding his trousers up. “I was just going to hang these up right quick. 

“I know how much you _hate_ your clothing not being put away properly.” 

Draco looked as though he were cursing his finicky nature but didn’t reply, and I grinned to myself as I walked into the closet to hang his trousers, taking a moment to Accio the phial of lube I knew he would have packed in his weekender. 

Okay, a few varieties, then, I chuckled to myself as four little glass jars came flying at me. 

I smiled as I selected the treacle-flavoured one — the one with the billywig essence — sending the others back, and returned to find Draco glaring up at me huffily, pouting so fiercely, it was almost adorable. 

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he informed me. 

“My, my… you _are_ tense.” 

I purposely didn’t respond to his accusation as I knelt before him again, opening the phial and tilting it slightly just above Draco’s cock, allowing a few drops to drip down and begin coating the thick length of it. 

He gasped when the first drop made contact, no doubt realising which phial I’d selected immediately.

“Let me help,” I soothed, reaching to wrap one hand loosely around his dick, sliding it slowly up and down the shaft, spreading the lube so that his entire length was slick with it.

Draco groaned, shutting his eyes and throwing his head back, almost in defeat, pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth.

“Is this helping?” I asked a few moments later, still wide-eyed and innocent-like, gazing up at him as I continued to stroke him, the scent of treacle teasing me, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I gave in. 

“I think you could do better,” he replied, hips thrusting lazily in time with my hand, and I chuckled.

“Could I?” I smirked up at him again as I removed my hand and he frowned at the loss of contact. 

“How so?” 

I leant forward again to lick a wide stripe up the length of his cock, groaning at the sudden heightening of my senses as the billywig essence took over. 

I gave another lusty lick, up the side, this time, working my way up Draco’s obscene length, relishing in how the billywig essence made it seem as though I could feel the ridge and pulse of every vein as I lapped my way up relishing the positively addictive combination of Draco and treacle. 

Another longing suck at the head, swirling my tongue around and dipping into Draco’s weeping slit, and I began to suck him off in earnest, swallowing him down then sliding slowly up, perhaps just to tease, or perhaps in an effort to glean as much treacle and Draco on my tongue as humanly possible. 

“Harry,” he sighed, hips jerking up into my mouth as I retreated once again. 

I didn’t reply, just kept sucking languidly, one arm hooked under and around his thigh, fingers tracing and relishing in how his muscles flexed and relaxed beneath my ministrations, my other hand gently fondling his balls as I lost myself in the taste, the feel, the scent of Draco.

“Draco,” I sighed, pulling off finally, rising up, lifting my face towards his as my hands ran up his arms, urging him to lean forward and bend closer to me. 

“What is it, pet?” he asked, one hand carding through my hair as the other smoothed itself around the small of my back, pulling me towards him, our lips meeting in a lingering kiss. 

“I want you,” I murmured, fingers burying themselves in his hair, pulling him even closer so that I could inhale the scent of him. 

“You want me to what,” he teased, nipping down at my mouth with the tiniest hint of a smile, before returning to kiss me properly. 

“I want you to fuck me,” I managed to reply between kisses. “Now. On that bed, there.”

Just in case he was unclear as to when or where. 

“Do I get to play and toy with you just as you were doing now?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” I replied, still kissing. 

Trying, anyway. 

“Want you now.” 

I mean, honestly, I should have known better. 

The sodding wanker. 

“ _Harry_ , why do you tell me such things?” he all but purred in my ear, and I groaned, already frustrated. 

“Get on the bed, then,” he instructed, and I rose immediately. 

“On all fours, that sweet arse of yours presented to me like a fucking gift,” he added, giving my arse a gentle squeeze, and I blushed a little because Draco’s filthy mouth still managed to get me from time to time. 

Course, I did what I was told.

I wasn’t stupid. 

Aside from the obvious pleasure I would get, albeit eventually, by following Draco’s instructions, I knew far too well by now that either ignoring them or trying to change his mind would only make it worse. 

Draco’s hands trailed lightly down my sides, from my ribcage, slowly down to rest on my hips, thumbs pulling my cheeks apart. 

“Merlin, Potter,” he sighed. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of spreading you open and seeing your pretty little pink pucker winking up at me.” 

He moved, spreading my arse open with just one hand so he could trail one finger lovingly down my crack, pausing to press gently against my opening, and I pushed back eagerly. 

“Patience, kitten,” he chided, running his finger from top to bottom again, and I groaned. 

“I don’t _want_ to be patient,” I shot back.

“Shh, stop talking nonsense,” Draco scolded, smacking my arse just hard enough for there to be a little sting and make me gasp. 

“You know damned well you love being teased just as much as I love teasing.” 

He slid his finger down my crack once more, and I moaned because this time it was liberally coated with more of the lube. 

Draco gently circled and pressed until his finger slid easily inside, the billywig essence causing the simple motion to send a wonderfully delicious ripple of sensation throughout my whole body, and I couldn’t help but moan again, shoving back against Draco’s finger, needing _more._

“Do you like that, kitten?” he asked, sliding just the one digit slowly in and out of me.

Teasing, for fucking real. 

Arse. 

“No,” I ground out, still trying to fuck myself further back on his stupid finger, still working itself in and out of me much too slowly.

“Already told you,” I continued, folding my arms under my head, tilting my arse up so that my evil boyfriend might take the hint and quit playing. 

“I want you to _fuck_ me. 

“ _Now.”_

Draco just laughed and withdrew his finger to give my arse another swat. 

“With what?” he asked, and I frowned momentarily.

“My fingers?” 

He slid the one lubed digit into me again, and I whined in frustration. 

“My cock?” 

Draco let the heavy weight of his cock slap against my hole and I whimpered, because, obviously. 

“My mouth?” 

He bent down to lick a stripe up my arse, groaning, himself, in the process.

“Merlin, you taste good with treacle,” he sighed, returning to swirl that expert tongue of his around my hole, lapping and licking languidly, hands alternately kneading at my arse to prise me open, and trailing covetous fingers up and around my back and sides, down my thighs, and back to knead at my arse once more. 

“Fuck, I love you like this,” Draco informed me, fastening his mouth around me, licking and slurping into me, and how could I _not_ moan and shove my arse back against his face when he was teasing and coaxing me open so that he could begin fucking me proper with that filthy mouth of his?

It was no time at all before I was crying out my usual litany of “more” and “please” and “fuck, Draco,” as he began to fuck me with his tongue, face shoving in and out between my cheeks, that wicked tongue of his driving in and out of my hole so that I was left a quivering, moaning mess, struggling not to all but collapse into the mattress and hump myself into it like a randy bloody teenager. 

Draco withdrew suddenly, and I made a strangled noise of complaint at the loss of his mouth attached to my arse. 

Next second, I felt the now-familiar press of those cursed Ben-Wa balls.

“ _No!_ ” I shouted, pulling away frantically. 

Hell no.

If Draco thought he was going to string me out for hours now, he was fucking mistaken. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he countered, and I knew that voice.

I let out a half-moan, half-sob, and Draco ran a hand cautiously down my side. 

I had a safeword.

We both did, just in case. 

We’d never said them aloud because they were both, apparently, names.

And I’m pretty damned sure both of us knew which names we’d thought of that would immediately bring any of our naughty play to a screeching halt once uttered. 

I was also sure my best mates and Draco’s work partner would murder us both if they ever found out. 

“Just for a minute or two,” he bargained, still caressing me, one hand gently petting my left side, the other carding reassuringly through my hair. 

“I want to smack your arse a bit with them in.” 

And I couldn’t help but groan again at that, because, _Merlin_ did Draco love spanking me when those wretched balls were lodged up my arse, delighting in the way I practically collapsed from the tiny jolts of pleasure they caused to radiate through me. 

“M’kay,” I sighed, relaxing once more, this time allowing Draco to push the sphere into me. 

I shivered as the magic in the toy drew the ball up inside of me until the second one was nestled against my entrance, Draco wasting no time gently nudging it into me, repeating the process with the third. 

“Merlin, Harry,” he sighed, one hand gliding up my side then sliding up round my chest, helping to raise me upright so that I was leaning back against him. 

“I don’t even know what to do with you, sometimes,” he sighed, nuzzling that spot just behind my ear, and I frowned.

It seemed, to me, anyway, that Draco always knew _exactly_ what to do to me. 

“You’re exquisite,” he continued, pressing sweet kisses along the side of my neck as his hands continued to touch and trace around my body. 

“I just want to lounge in bed with you all day and worship every centimetre of your body.” 

“Well, we’re in a bed right now,” I replied. “Conveniently enough.” 

Draco chuckled and smacked my arse. 

“Cheeky git,” he chided, although I barely heard him as I cried out, the three balls vibrating deep in my arse sending waves of pleasure, starting at my core and seeming to ripple out to the tips of my fingers and toes, all the way up and out of my head. 

I’m not going to lie. 

It was incredible and intense and had me drawing in deep, ragged breaths, arse already pressing back, hoping Draco would repeat the action. 

Such a fucking slut, Harry, I scolded myself. 

Apparently, it looked just as good as it felt, judging by the way Draco’s cock gave an interested jerk against my back and the appreciative hitch of breath that came from just behind my ear before Draco nibbled along my earlobe.

“I think you like this, Harry,” he accused, hand soothing and caressing the sting of the smack. 

He delivered another firm smack, and I let out another cry as the waves rippled through me again, somehow more intense this time. 

“Being spanked,” he continued with still a third smack. “I wonder how many smacks before you’re begging to be fucked proper.” 

I couldn’t have even replied if I’d wanted to at this point, the waves of pleasure surging through me were so intense, and I could only gibber, and moan, and cry out, body arching my arse back towards Draco, begging for more. 

And Draco delivered, continuing to spank me, drinking in my cries and moans, and I couldn’t have even told you how many times his hand landed, turning me into a quivering, incoherent mess, arse no doubt bright red from his ministrations. 

“ _Harry_ ,” he sighed finally, pulling me back against him, mouth trailing kisses along my neck as he slid his hands down my sides and around front to rest on my hipbones. 

I didn’t reply.

Couldn’t.

Not verbally, anyway. 

“Merlin, how are you so fucking perfect?” he sighed, left hand curling gently around my cock, giving it a few languid strokes, and I could only cry out again as the waves of pleasure intensified and began to radiate through me once more. 

“Draco,” I finally managed, my voice sounding positively wrecked and desperate, even to my ears. “Please.” 

“Has kitten had enough?” he asked, pressing little kisses down the back of my neck, hand still stroking my cock.

“Mm-hmm,” I managed, nodding hastily, and Draco, thankfully, trailed his other hand down my back to grasp the butt plug, tugging it gently until all three balls slid free, me gasping and moaning pitifully all the while, because holy fuck, those balls were wicked. 

His hands fastened around my waist once more, guiding me to turn towards him, and we did that sort of awkward dance of trying to turn round on our knees, balancing on the soft surface of the mattress. 

I didn’t even wait a half-second before collapsing against him, arms twining round his neck, mouth seeking his desperately. 

Draco seemed just on edge as I was, thankfully, mouth fastening to mine, our tongues tangling almost frantically as Draco laid me back on the mattress, fingers fumbling at my entrance until he slid two deep inside, working them steadily to open me up before adding a third, twisting and seeking until he hit that spot, and I cried out, clutching him fiercely. 

“Shh, kitten,” he soothed, still kissing me as he withdrew his fingers, lining himself up with me. “I’ve got you.” 

“ _Please_ ,” I gasped, arms and legs working frantically to pull him closer, the effects of the billywig making each touch of his skin sliding against my own feel electric. 

Thankfully, the billywig seemed to be having a similar effect on Draco, because he wasted no time on his usual slow, teasing slide only halfway inside of me, instead sliding slowly all the way, and I practically sobbed at how fucking good it felt as Draco began to drive into me, hands reaching and clutching at his back, his hair, his arse, anywhere I could reach, groaning my encouragement into his mouth. 

I was fucking wrecked.

Gone. 

My body was working on autopilot, hips thrusting up to meet Draco’s, mouth attached to his as though he were my fucking life source.

I was so on edge, wound taut from all of Draco’s teasing and that damned lube, I already knew my approaching orgasm would be fucking mind-shattering, but when it did hit, it still tore through me with an intensity I hadn’t thought remotely possible, and I could only shout incoherently, limbs jerking and tightening around Draco, leaving several bruises and angry red scratch marks, I’m sure.

It felt as though my whole world was a trembling, convulsing mess, and I collapsed, exhausted, finally blinking my eyes open to stare up at Draco in awe.

“Fuck me,” I sighed with a sated smile. “What the fuck was that?”

Draco was also staring down at me, although he looked far from blissfully relaxed like I was, despite the fact that he’d also just come spectacularly. 

“I think that was Paris, experiencing her first earthquake,” he replied hesitantly, glancing around cautiously, as though expecting the entire fire brigade to come bursting through our door. 

“Did I…” I began, sitting upright and glancing around worriedly, noticing that some people were rushing out of the building across the street, talking excitedly and looking around. 

“It’s okay, love,” Draco assured me, nuzzling behind my ear, pulling me down to relax beside him. 

“It was very small,” he added, wrapping his arms around me. “I don’t think it caused any real damage.

“But… I think we ought to save that sort of sexy play for when we’re at the manor and far away from Muggles.”

Draco bent his head down to kiss the top of my head, hands trailing lazily across my back.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly. “Was that a bit much for you?” 

“Merlin, no,” I sighed, burrowing even more tightly into him. “That was fucking incredible.” 

I giggled suddenly.

“Earth-moving, honestly,” I added, appreciating Draco’s snort of laughter at my quip. 

Draco’s stomach gave a little growl, then, and I couldn’t help but stare at his body as he stretched out beside me. 

“Shall we ring Pierre-Yves for some food?” I suggested, pulling his face back towards me for another kiss.

“Mmm,” he murmured, reaching a hand out to grab a menu that came floating from the sitting area. 

“It’s a small menu, but everything is excellent.”

“I don’t care,” I replied, stretching out alongside him. “I trust your judgement.” 

Honestly, I was now in that happily lazy, sated state that follows an intense orgasm, and the thought of perusing a menu right now was about the last thing I wanted to deal with. 

Draco picked up the phone from the bedside table and began speaking in French, presumably ordering food from Pierre-Yves, and I allowed my eyes to flutter shut as I listened to the soothing baritone of Draco’s voice easily switching between the smooth, sophisticated vowel sounds and the occasional guttural noises that characterised the French language to my untrained ears. 

“What did you order?” I asked sleepily, curling myself around him and snuggling against his side. 

“You’ll see,” he replied, forcing me to sit up, which I definitely frowned and pouted about. 

“We should probably put something on and get out of bed,” he reminded me, hand reaching out to catch the two plush terrycloth robes that came dashing out of the bathroom. 

“Do I have time for a shower?” I asked. 

“Sure,” Draco answered, leaning down to kiss me once more. 

“Care to join me?” I asked hopefully.

Nothing sexual, really.

I just liked it when Draco shampooed my hair for me. 

Draco looked down at me pointedly, knowing full well that our showers together often turned into more than just showers. 

“Just a shower,” I added hastily. “Really.” 

“I suppose we could both use one,” Draco mused, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and standing, hand reaching out for me, and I grinned at my little victory.

A short fifteen minutes later, Draco and I were lounging on the sofa wrapped in the hotel robes, me with my nose buried in Draco’s neck, wondering if I preferred his normal cologne or the bright, citrusy burst followed by the woody, mossy whisper of the Hermès Eau d’Orange Verte provided by the hotel.

Maybe he’d agree to alternate between the two to keep me on my toes, I wondered, sniffing at him again, starting as a sharp knock sounded on the door. 

Draco called something out in French, and, next second, Pierre-Yves was entering, a tray balanced carefully above his shoulder, his other hand carrying a small silver bucket with what I knew to be a champagne bottle peeking out of the top. 

He began speaking with Draco in French, kneeling down to place the dishes on the low table before us. 

“And you, Harry?” he asked with a smile, switching between languages so easily, I wondered if he was like Hugo and had grown up speaking more than one language. 

“How are you? Is there anything else I can get for you?” 

Pierre-Yves was now setting the bucket holding the champagne up beside the table, but he managed to glance up at me questioningly. 

“Erm… no,” I said, finally. “I think I’m good.” 

He smiled at me as he rose, reminding me rather of an affectionate uncle or father, and I couldn’t help but smile back. 

Pierre-Yves was now opening the bottle of champagne and pouring it expertly into two flutes, handing one to me and the other to Draco.

“Bon appétit,” he said, standing and turning to exit the room, and I finally turned my attention to the spread before me. 

“What is all this?” I asked, not really recognising most of the food on the table. 

Draco reached out to pick up what looked like a teeny pancake from one of the plates, smeared some crème fraîche on it, then topped it with an odd-looking scoop of glossy, little black pearls using a special spoon that came with it. 

“Here,” he said, holding the pancake-y thing out to me. “Try this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s caviar,” he replied. “You’ll like it… I think.”

“You think?”

“Well, yes.” 

Draco frowned, one hand still holding out the pancake, the other cupped beneath it. 

“You really liked the Scotch egg at the Laughing Gravy, and you recognised that it tasted like ‘ocean’,” he explained.

“If you like that fresh, ocean-like burst splashing across your tastebuds, you’re going to bloody _love_ caviar.” 

“Oh,” I said, leaning forward eagerly to take a bite.

That Scotch egg had been incredible. 

Draco hadn’t lied or exaggerated, I thought as the bite exploded in my mouth, briny and delicious, yet somehow smooth and nutty, tasting just like how I’d imagine a day out on the ocean might feel, the melty cream of the crème fraîche and the chew of the pancake lending a perfect backdrop to highlight the crisp flavour of the caviar.

“Holy Hecate,” I muttered, leaning forward to take another bite. “That might be my new favourite thing on earth.”

Draco looked exceptionally pleased, watching as I nibbled at a third bite of the tiny pancake.

“Merlin, I love introducing you to new foods,” he informed me with that lovely, pleased-looking smile that I loved. 

“I love you introducing me to new foods,” I replied, finishing off the caviar-laden pancake, making sure to ‘accidentally’ lick and suck at Draco’s fingertips as I did so. 

“What’s the rest of this?” I asked, glancing back at the table.

“This is foie gras with fig chutney,” he explained, smearing a generous portion of a, frankly, unappealing brownish paste on a piece of bread and topping it with the accompanying jelly.

“I don’t know about that,” I hesitated, drawing away from Draco’s hand. 

“Really, Potter?” he demanded, smirking and bringing the proffered bite even closer to my mouth. 

“You’ll put your mouth on my arse, but won’t eat this delicious morsel I’m offering you?”

I continued to stare at him and the odd-looking bite warily. 

“If I’m being entirely honest, your arse looks a lot more appetising than that,” I replied earnestly. 

While I had yet to have any desire to fuck Draco following our conversation regarding his sexual preferences, I had taken certain liberties on more than one occasion whilst sucking him off and dipping lower, which he had, far as I could tell by the way he’d moaned and cried out, enjoyed quite thoroughly. 

“What a complement, Potter,” Draco drawled, batting his lashes at me teasingly. 

“Now shut up and take a bite, will you?” 

I rolled my eyes and leant forward, taking a bite of the offensive looking toast.

Sweet Fucking Merlin.

What the fuck had I been complaining about?

My eyes snapped open, and I almost glared at Draco’s knowing look as I chewed on the heavenly morsel in my mouth. 

“How is something that looks so vile this delicious?” I demanded, leaning forward to take another bite.

The pâté was smooth and creamy, almost buttery, with a slight beefy flavour that was balanced by the bit of bread and enhanced by the sweet, somewhat sharp tang of the fig chutney.

Never judge a book by its cover, I guess.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing at the last dish. “Are those artichoke hearts?”

Finally, something I recognised.

Draco nodded, spearing one with his fork and holding it up for me.

“They sounded nice,” he explained. “And a bit lighter on the palate, considering the caviar and foie gras.” 

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” I asked, appreciating the light, delicate flavour of the artichoke. 

It was fresh, not one of those jarred ones swimming in Italian dressing that you picked up at the supermarket, and seasoned with just the barest hint of salt and pepper and finished with a delicious, almost fruity, olive oil. 

“Yes,” Draco was replying, fixing himself a little caviar pancake. “But I wanted to make sure you knew what this all was.

“Left to your own devices, you would've never even tried the foie gras.”

I stuck my tongue out at him and helped myself to one of the pancakes, doing my best to copy Draco’s expert preparation.

“No!” he shouted suddenly, and I jerked back from the table, dropping the stupid, little pancake in the process.

“You made me drop my pancake!” I informed Draco, glaring at him accusingly. 

Draco just looked stunned and blinked at me.

“Your… pancake?” he repeated, then began to giggle, collapsing against the side of the sofa.

“Potter, those are blinis,” he informed me, still laughing.

“What’s that? Just a fancy word for pancake, I’m sure,” I retorted. 

Draco was still chuckling.

“I suppose,” he admitted, grey-blue eyes peering up at me from where he was still collapsed against the sofa. 

“Or a Russian one…” he continued. “They’re more like a crepe, really.”

“Another fancy word for pancake,” I shot back, reaching over to grab another _blini_ and slathering it with a dollop of crème fraîche. 

“And before you even put that fork of yours near the caviar, don’t,” Draco warned, sitting up and reaching for the little bowl and that silly little pearlescent spoon set beside it.

“Merlin’s Beard, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I sighed, rolling my eyes.

“I have to use that ridiculous little spoon to put caviar on my fancy little pancake?” 

“How are you making pancakes sound dirty right now, hmm?” Draco asked, grinning over at me as he carefully portioned out a scoop of the caviar.

“It’s all in your mind, I’m sure,” I assured him witheringly. “Now are you going to tell me what the deal is with that stupid spoon?”

“You can’t use a metal spoon with caviar,” he explained, gently emptying the spoonful of caviar onto my pancake. “The metal reacts with it and ruins the flavour.” 

“Weird,” I commented, savouring my second _blini_ with caviar from a pearl spoon, and hoping that my future would include many more. 

“What’s the fourth plate?” I asked, helping myself to more of the foie gras, glancing at a fourth plate with an elegant little silver cover still on it. 

“That’s pudding,” Draco replied, taking a sip of champagne. 

“Don’t. Even. Think. About. It, Potter,” he warned quietly, eyes watching my hand that was reaching out for the cover, eager to reveal whatever decadent treat lay beneath. 

“But…” I was torn, staring longingly at the covered plate, then hopefully back at Draco. 

“Pudding,” I explained, lamely, and Draco smirked.

“Eat your real food first, Harry,” he instructed, smearing another piece of toast with foie gras and chutney. 

I continued to eat, shooting the occasional sullen glance at Draco, as though that would convince him to let me have my pudding sooner. 

At last, Draco deemed that we’d eaten enough “real” food and floated the final plate over to his waiting hands, eyes sparkling with anticipation as he lifted the cover to reveal a small cake that was covered in what looked to be baked apples.

“What’s that?” I asked, leaning forward curiously. 

“Tarte Tatin,” he replied. “It’s basically a French upside-down-apple cake. And the apples are caramelised in butter and sugar.” 

“Excellent,” I asserted with a nod. “Why didn’t you order one for yourself?” 

“Cute,” he smirked, lifting a forkful of the gooey cake to my mouth, and I gladly obliged, closing my mouth around the sugary morsel, sliding it off the fork, eyes already slipping shut as the buttery-toffee taste hit my senses. 

It was sublime. 

It was perfection — a beautiful sugary coating preserving the shape and taste of the apples beneath, all piled above a buttery, salty, flakey crust that offset the soft sweetness of the fruit. 

I was already leaning forward, eager for the next bite, but Draco had silly ideas of sharing, or something, and was guiding the next forkful towards his own mouth, and I grinned, continuing to follow his hand, even as his own mouth closed around the tasty morsel.

“I don’t know why you’re eating my pudding, Malfoy,” I sighed, kissing him, thinking that the taste of toffee and apples went quite nicely with Draco.

“Mmm,” was the only reply he made, arms wrapping round me, the plate of cake floating alongside him as his hands occupied themselves with urging me into his lap. 

“New favourite,” I continued between languid swirls of my tongue into Draco’s mouth, trying to get more of the addictive taste of him and upside-down French apple-toffee cake. 

“Draco.” 

Swirl.

“And toffee.”

Another swirl.

“And apples.” 

The cake was still delicious, albeit a bit cold, thirty minutes later. 

***

**A Stroll Along the Seine**   
  


_Friday Evening_

_12 February 2010_

_Draco’s POV_

“Harry,” I murmured, nuzzling along his jawline and the delicate shell of his ear. “Wake up, love.” 

“Mmm” he sighed, eyes blinking open as he stretched out alongside me, arms reaching up above his head, toes pointing and reaching as far as they could in the opposite direction, and I didn’t even try not to avert my gaze from the gorgeous display before me. 

“It’s time to get up,” I whispered. “Have a drink at that lovely bar downstairs, then go explore Paris for your first evening ever.” 

I felt bad, waking my Harry up from his nap, but we only had the weekend, and I was determined to show him as much of my beloved second home city as I could on this first trip across the pond. 

A short while later, Harry and I were downstairs in the sumptuous bar, the walls lined with dark wood and leather-bound books, the thick, velvet, crimson curtains that hung in the entry only adding to the allure, making it seem as though we really had just stepped into a private gentleman’s club from a bygone era.

“It’s bloody gorgeous, isn’t it?” I asked, pulling Harry towards me and placing a kiss just above his ear, delighting in the way his eyes were wide with wonder, taking in the scenery. 

“Yes,” he replied, nodding. “How did you even find this place?”

I couldn’t help the little giggle that escaped my lips then. 

“What?” Harry asked, turning to look at me quizzically, the lush surroundings forgotten for the moment.

“Hermione suggested it. Ron took her here for their tenth anniversary,” I admitted, trying my best not to imagine Weasley and Granger in these same surroundings. 

“Apparently, Bill told him about it.”

“Did Hermione murder Ron for being too extravagant?” Harry asked, grinning up at me as we sidled up to the bar. 

We all knew Ron adored spoiling his wife, as any good partner should, really.

It was particularly cute because Ron finally had the finances to shower Hermione with presents and weekend getaways, and even though Hermione, ever the practical one, pretended to complain and insist that they shouldn’t spend their money so frivolously, the sparkle in her eyes always said otherwise. 

Harry was glancing down at the menu, and I couldn’t help but take in the sight of him, dressed in the plum-coloured suit that I’d insisted he shell out the Galleons for, reminding him teasingly that he’d once asked me to “help him look like shit,” and that this suit would definitely help him towards that goal.

_“It’s purple,” Harry stated, as though perhaps I were colour-blind or something._

“ _I know, and it will look incredible on you,” I assured him. “Can you imagine?”_

 _I held the colour swatch up to his face and couldn’t help smiling at how the colour already_ _accentuated_ _his eyes._

_“Do you really think I’d look good in purple?” he asked, as though, perhaps, he feared I was playing a nasty prank on him._

_“Yes,” I explained. “Because purple makes green pop - the deeper the purple, the more vibrant the green will appear.”_

_“So I’m to wear it with a green shirt?” he frowned uncertainly, and I just stared at him for a few moments._

_Surely Harry wasn’t_ this _clueless, was he?_

_He continued to blink up at me, brow furrowed as he glanced from the swatch of fabric to my face, waiting for an answer._

_“Your eyes, Potter,” I’d finally replied. “They’re green, for the record.”_

_“Oh.”_

_He looked startled._

_“You were matching it to my eyes?”_

“ _Well, yes,” I replied. “What else would I be matching your clothing to?”_

_“Each other?” he replied, as though he already knew I’d have to shut my eyes in exasperation._

_Then again, I reminded myself, remembering Harry’s gigantic t-shirts and trousers, cinched almost comically at his tiny waist with a belt when he’d been at Hogwarts, Harry had probably_ _never learnt anything_ _about dressing properly, much less_ advantageously. 

_“So… you’re supposed to match clothes to your eyes?”_

_“Not necessarily,” I replied. “But if you have eyes that are_ _particularly_ _striking, it’s a good place to start.”_

_“You do that,” he informed me, eyes sparkling happily, as though he’d just realised I dressed the way I did on purpose._

_“I do,” I replied. “You should always play up your assets.”_

Perhaps urging him to buy the suit had been a mistake, I reckoned, appreciating the narrow cut of the jacket that highlighted Harry’s slim build, his heather-grey t-shirt making the suit more casual.

My gaze continued lower, taking in how the superb tailoring of the trousers showed off his thighs and hugged the curve of his arse in a way that made me bloody jealous, wishing it was my own body pressed so deliciously against Harry’s skin. 

“I can’t even decipher this menu,” he informed me, gesturing at the drink menu on the counter between us. 

“It’s in English,” I replied, frowning. 

“I know, but… these are very fancy… complicated drinks.” 

“I suppose we ought to try the drink named after our room,” I reasoned, eyes flicking over the menu. 

Said drink sounded lovely, with a blend of black truffle bitters, pecan syrup, and Rémy Martin cognac.

“Unless you’d rather the ‘L’Instant Caramel’,” I added, signalling a drink boasting vanilla-infused vodka, café liqueur, a shot of espresso, and salted caramel. 

To my surprise, Harry wrinkled his nose.

“This might sound odd,” he began, “but I don’t really like sweet drinks.” 

I paused for a moment because I’d seen Harry guzzle a Starbucks caramel frappuccino in mere seconds on several occasions.

Same for hot chocolate or milkshakes. 

I assumed he meant alcoholic drinks and filed that bit of information away for future reference.

“So… two Castigliones?” 

He nodded happily, and my breath literally caught at how gorgeous his eyes were, sparkling excitedly against the stunning jewel-coloured backdrop of the hotel, and I couldn’t help leaning down to give him a brief kiss.

Of course, Kitten had other ideas and began returning his signature, teasing, little kisses, lips barely brushing mine, so, naturally, I had to respond by threading my fingers through his hair, tilting his head as I deepened the kiss, begging the little voice in the back of my head to remind me that we were in public and not to let things get too heated. 

Idiot little voice didn’t listen, and it was Harry who finally pulled away, giving me a knowing little smirk as he did so. 

Minx. 

Our drinks, I noted, had been set discreetly on the bar before us, and I picked mine up to take a sip. 

Merlin, it was delicious, I thought, glancing down at the menu card again. 

Harry, I noticed, also seemed to be enjoying the drink.

“It’s good, hmm?” 

I’d caught him mid-sip, so he only nodded in response. 

“I think I’m going to have to find some truffle bitters and pecan syrup, and we’ll have to try to replicate this back home.”

Or maybe even brew my own, honestly, I amended, taking another sip, letting the savoury flavours of the drink slide over my tongue once again.

“Yes, please,” he replied, nodding enthusiastically. “I’ll help taste until you get it right.”

“Generous of you,” I snorted, stepping away from the bar and placing my hand against Harry’s back, guiding him towards the sumptuous circular red velvet sofa in the middle of the room. 

“This place is incredible,” he sighed again, eyes darting from the ceiling, to the walls, to the low-lit chandelier hanging just above the sofa. 

“Could you imagine having the… well… the imagination to come up with something like this?” he asked as we sat down on one of the available sections on the round sofa, Harry, as usual, ignoring the other seats around the table and squeezing in beside me, snuggling in against my right side. 

“Yes,” I replied immediately, taking another sip of my drink and wondering if this was a trick question.

“Nevermind,” he laughed. “That was a silly question to ask you. 

“I know what sort of things that imagination of yours can come up with.”

“Mmm,” I chuckled, leaning down to nuzzle above Harry’s ear. “Some use their imagination to create spectacular hotels, and others, to create spectacular sex, I suppose.”

Harry laughed again and turned his face towards me.

“I’m glad you decided to focus on the latter,” he murmured, nipping gently at my earlobe. “Suits my interests quite well.” 

Merlin, why had I even thought to leave the room tonight? 

I was about to respond when the sofa gave a little shake, as though someone had plunked themselves down rather solidly on another section of the sofa, and I was vaguely aware of a group settling in around the table and chairs of the section beside us.

“Oops!” a voice called out, the sofa shaking again as though the person had flung themselves back against the backrest of the sofa, jarring Harry and me again. 

I suppose I ought to thank her for ruining the mood.

I’d been on the brink of Apparating Harry back upstairs, and that would have been… awkward. 

“Wow, this is some place, huh?” a large, blonde woman, hair done up in an elaborate beehive-type do, asked, grinning over at Harry and me. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she went on, eyes scanning the ceiling above us, then returning to focus on us. “I was just so caught up staring at the decorations, I misjudged how far away the seat was!”

I nearly groaned and shut my eyes in exasperation as she leant forward towards us.

I’d been perplexed, then a bit irritated, and finally amused while living in Boston at this quirky American habit of striking up a conversation wherever one went. 

Honestly, I’d thought it made sense to help pass the time whilst standing in line at the supermarket or at the bank, but really, woman.

Clearly, Harry and I were canoodling on this velvet fucking sofa, in this over-the-top-romantic hotel, over Valentine’s weekend, for a goddamned reason, and now was _not_ the time for chit-chat with strangers. 

“Isn’t this place just enchanting?” she asked, eyes flickering up towards the ornately carved wooden crown moulding, then back at us expectantly.

“Erm… yeah,” Harry replied finally, taking another sip of his drink, because, of course, Harry was too nice to ignore her. “It’s lovely.” 

“You boys are so cute,” she went on, and I really did raise a brow and shoot her a disbelieving look. 

“You remind me of my nephew and his boyfriend,” she went on, completely oblivious to my look of disdain. “He recently came out to me, and I was so happy he felt comfortable to tell me.

“He hasn’t told his parents yet, so I’m a very proud aunt.” 

“Oh,” Harry replied, nodding, still looking completely unsure as to what he should do or say with information that was so private.

Bless him, he was so bloody adorable. 

“Erm… so, are his parents not okay with…” he paused and shrugged. 

“Oh, honey, no,” the woman replied, and her mates giggled knowingly. “We’re from Texas, so….”

Harry and I both frowned, he, no doubt, trying to remember anything he knew about Texas, same as I was.

I’d heard of the state, sure.

I just couldn’t remember anything about it.

Or even where it was in that giant country of theirs, although I had a vague recollection that it was maybe somewhere south?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologised, actually leaning _further_ towards us.

“Y’all don’t know about Texas,” she laughed, patting first Harry, then me, on the knee.

What the actual fuck.

“Let’s just say it’s got a lil’ reputation for not being so open and progressive about all that stuff,” she said with a conspiratorial wink. 

“We’ve our fair share of those here in England, too,” I replied, deciding to join the conversation at last. 

“It’s so dumb,” one of her friends piped up, clearly a few drinks in. “Let people love who they want.”

Sloshed or no, I couldn’t help raising my glass to her in a silent toast and draining the last of my drink.

“Oh, no!” the first lady exclaimed. “Y’all need another drink!”

And with that, she flagged one of the servers over.

“Another round for us, please,” she ordered. “And another for them, too.”

The server glanced at us, brows raised expectantly. 

“Oh, we can’t,” Harry apologised. “We’ll be leaving soon, and wouldn’t be able to buy a round in return.” 

“Well, that’s alright, sugar. I wasn’t expecting nothing in return,” the lady replied, frowning over at us good-naturedly, and I remembered that sometimes Americans just bought drinks for random strangers without expecting a round in return, as proper British pub etiquette dictated.

Not that we were in America.

Or a pub. 

“What are you two boys drinking, there?” she asked. 

The server was still looking at us expectantly, and I noticed Harry gulp, no doubt feeling guilty that our current drinks were the two most expensive on the menu. 

“We’ll take a Leila and an Anna, please,” I spoke up, quickly recalling two less-expensive drinks I’d noticed on the menu that had sounded appealing — the Leila, basically, a fancy Screwdriver, made with raspberry-infused vodka, Saint-Germain liquor, and a mix of raspberry, orange juice, and ginger ale — and the Anna, a sultry, earthy mix of gin, Saint-Raphaël amber, H. Theoria Perfidie (a brand new liquor that I’d been hearing wonderful things about), and finished with apricot and rosemary bitters. 

“These drinks here are all so fancy,” another lady in the group was saying. “I couldn’t even decide, so I asked the bartender to pour me his favourite.” 

“So, erm, are you all in Paris for Valentine’s weekend as well?” Harry asked, finishing the rest of his drink and attempting to make small talk. 

Merlin, I loved how fucking sweet he was. 

Asking three, clearly single, women having a girls’ night at a bar if they were celebrating Valentine’s Day.

Honestly, though, could anyone besides Harry do that without managing to offend? 

All three women threw their heads back and laughed. 

“Honey, no!” the first lady gasped. 

“Just the opposite!” one of her companions added. “Fuck Valentine’s Day!” 

“We’re here for anti-Valentine’s Day,” the first woman explained. “No offence to you two adorable lovebirds.” 

We all paused as the server returned, placing our drinks gently before us. 

“We go on a trip every year,” the third woman explained. “To celebrate being single, because we chose our husbands stupidly when we were young.” 

“And when our friends heard we were going to Paris, they told us that we _had_ to go to the Moulin Rouge,” lady number two explained, rolling her eyes. 

“Which we figured was just a giant tourist trap,” lady number one chimed in, and I couldn’t help but smirk and roll my eyes in agreement. 

“So, we did some research, and decided to treat ourselves to drinks at this place instead of paying for the overpriced tickets up the street.” 

The conversation continued until Harry and I had finished our drinks, and I stood, smiling politely down at them as I shrugged into my cadet blue coat, then held up Harry’s black one for him to slide his arms into. 

“Thank you very much for the drink,” I said, smiling my smile that I knew made certain sorts of middle-aged woman giggle like a schoolgirl, Merlin knows why, but whatever. 

“But Harry and I must be going now. We’ve got dinner reservations we can’t miss.” 

The ladies, as predicted, positively beamed and wished us farewell and chided us not to have _too_ much fun, and Harry and I were, finally, on our way.

“So, where are we going for dinner?” he asked as we exited the hotel.

“No idea,” I replied, sliding my fingers between his own as we made our way down the street. “Thought we’d go for a walk along the Seine, maybe drink a bottle of champagne and watch the sunset.” 

It was five forty-five, and the sky was already beginning to glow a pinkish-orange around its edges, and I quickly pulled Harry into the shadow of a large doorway and Apparated us just outside a wine shop I knew of close to the river’s edge, and a short ten-minutes later, Harry and I were joining countless other lovebirds and groups of friends strolling and gathering along the riverside to watch the sunset. 

“I know we have a river, and a sunset in London,” Harry was saying, leaning against me as he reached for the champagne bottle to take a swig — we were being super-classy and drinking straight from the bottle, obviously. 

“But how is it so much more romantic here?” 

“It’s called novelty, Potter,” I snorted, even as I pulled him closer, leaning down for a lingering kiss, sunset and champagne forgotten for the moment. 

I straightened and tugged the bottle gently from his hand, taking my own sip, watching as Harry waved happily at a passing boat full of tourists on the Bateaux Mouches, many of whom waved back excitedly, no doubt thinking they were waving at a real Parisian. 

“Are we going on one of those?” he asked, eyes slanting up at me hopefully. 

“Erm… I hadn’t planned for it,” I admitted.

“Why not?” he asked, straightening and looking longingly at the boat travelling on its way. “It looks like it’d be fun. 

“Maybe even a little romantic at night.” 

“I suppose,” I replied with a frown.

“Which one’s the best one?” he asked, as another tourist boat came into view, chugging by, Harry still waving far too excitedly to have been a real Parisian, but what did anyone on that boat know? 

“I don’t know. I’ve never taken one.”

“What?!” he demanded, whipping his head round to stare at me incredulously. “Why not?”

“Erm… because… I haven’t?” 

“So, can we go on one, then?” he begged, staring up at me so hopefully that I would have, honestly, promised him any damned thing he wanted. 

“I’ll text Pierre-Yves,” I sighed, pulling my mobile out of my pocket and sending a quick text. 

I, personally, wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of sitting on one of those wretched tourist-laden boats, with their uncomfortable plastic chairs, everyone standing or elbowing their way to try to get a better shot of each monument as it passed. 

Maybe our butler would know of a more romantic option? 

Harry was snuggled against my side again, lifting the bottle of champagne to his lips. 

“Where did you live in Paris,” he asked suddenly. 

“In the 6th,” I replied. “Rue Guénégaud.” 

As if Harry would understand what any of that meant. 

“That way,” I pointed to our right. “Across the river.

“We’ll get all the best things for a picnic tomorrow, and I’ll show you along the way.” 

“M’kay,” he acquiesced, leaning in to inhale just behind my ear again, and I couldn’t help but almost thank that idiot Williams’ for making Harry love burrowing his face into my neck so often. 

My mobile pinged then, and I pulled it out to read Pierre-Yves’ response.

He highly recommended a dinner cruise on a restored boat called Le Calife, which, in addition to Harry’s request to tour the city via boat, boasted a romantic atmosphere aboard a lovingly restored barge with elegant wood and wrought iron details, stained glass, and even a music room, as well as food that was worth the trip alone. 

He could reserve two seats for this evening, boarding at eight-fifteen. 

_Yes,_ _please_ I replied. _That sounds perfect._

 _Consider it done_ , came his reply, and I grinned down at Harry, pulling him closer.

“Guess who’s going for a dinner cruise on the Seine later tonight?”

The gasp of delight and the way Harry was positively beaming would have made even a simple cruise on the normal boat with the icky plastic chairs worth it. 

An hour later, we found ourselves crossing the Pont des Arts towards a gorgeous cobalt-blue barge, its glass-covered ceiling and antique-style lanterns already assuring me that Pierre-Yves had done well.

Harry and I were seated at one of the tables, me insisting on taking the seat with its back towards the window so that Harry could stare his pretty little eyes out the window the entire time, sipping on Kir Royals while other passengers boarded until the boat eventually left the dock, beginning its lazy path along the river, passing under the many famous bridges of the city as we headed east. 

Harry’s face was worth every knut as he took in every site, asking questions, me answering the best I could.

And the food was every bit as delicious as Pierre-Yves had promised.

Harry had had his usual panicked expression when he’d opened his menu, then his features had relaxed a bit.

“There are only three choices per section,” he said, smiling softly, as his eyes perused the menu, calmly, for once. 

“Does that make it easier for you?” I asked, because if you didn’t think I’d be seeking out restaurants with small, simple menus from now on, you’ve not been paying attention. 

Harry nodded, eyes still travelling down the menu.

“I know exactly what I want,” he replied, sitting up a little straighter and smiling at me with almost the same proud smile Hugo used when he’d accomplished a new feat of magic. 

As it turned out, what Harry wanted was the smoked duck salad with foie gras, confit gizzards, and pine nuts on mesclun salad to start and the chicken with roasted potatoes and veg with caramelised onions to follow. 

Apparently, he’d got over his initial distaste for foie gras, I smirked to myself, as I ordered the warm goat cheese salad with walnuts and the sea bass with tarragon beurre blanc and celeriac purée. 

By the time our entrée and main courses had been cleared, Harry and I happily tipsy from the bottle of champagne we’d split and the glass of wine to accompany our dinners, I was beginning to understand why people thought these dinner cruises were so romantic. 

Dessert, mine, the boat’s, apparently, famous nougat with raspberry coulis and ginger-caramel drizzle, and Harry’s, the equally appreciated chocolate lava cake with crème anglaise and a small scoop of vanilla ice cream, was timed so that it was served just as the boat came into view of the Eiffel Tower with its lights sparkling, and I don’t know what I enjoyed more — the positively deliciously creamy nougat of the dessert cut with the sharp tang of the raspberry and gingered caramel, or sweet Harry’s face as he tried to simultaneously eat his molten chocolate cake and stare up at the world-famous tower, all her lights twinkling merrily against the dark sky. 

“Here, love, let me help,” I insisted, gently taking Harry’s spoon from his hand and cutting another bite of cake and ice cream to lift to his lips as he continued to stare, letting me spoon-feed him the next few bites of his dessert. 

On a whim, I carefully scooped the next bite of cake and ice cream onto the spoon, then zoomed and swirled it towards Harry, making aeroplane noises.

Harry was still so entranced with gazing at the tower that he didn’t realise it for a few seconds, then scowled at me.

“Quit it,” he snapped, although he opened his mouth willingly and accepted the proffered bite of cake and ice cream, aeroplane swooshes and noises or not. 

“Make me,” I smirked back at him, zooming another aeroplane bite of dessert towards him, ignoring the curious stares of the guests seated on either side of us. 

“I’m going to make you pay for this,” he promised.

“I hope so,” I replied earnestly, feeding him one last bite of dessert, knowing that I absolutely did by the way his emerald eyes fluttered closed as his wicked mouth closed around the last spoonful, then flared open to meet mine in a challenge as his tongue darted out to sweep along that luscious lower lip of his.

“When you least expect it,” he promised, and I couldn’t help but grin.

My little Gryffindor was a quick study. 

Later, as we were snuggled, face-to-face, in bed, I insisted on feeding Harry the exquisite Pierre Marcolini chocolate hearts Pierre-Yves had thoughtfully left on our bedside tables.

“What was your favourite part of the day,” I asked, holding the yellow “frisson” heart temptingly just before his lips.

Beneath the bright yellow coating lay a shell of white chocolate filled with lime and white chocolate ganache, which made Harry’s mouth pucker a bit after he’d replied that it was seeing me gather him up at work.

Which, honestly, had surprised me. 

_Me_?! Me, showing up at his work had been his happiest moment?

Merlin, someone just dress me in yellow and rebrand me a Hufflepuff, please. 

“What was the best food moment of the day?” I asked, holding out the “passion” heart, another white chocolate shell, this time filled with milk chocolate ganache and passion fruit pulp, enrobed in a dark orange shell. 

Harry thought for a moment, eyes darting towards the chocolate held between my fingertips.

“The caviar,” he said finally, leaning forward to pluck the chocolate from my fingers, and I momentarily cursed myself for thinking up this stupid game where he could eat the chocolates from between my fingers.

“What was the most incredible thing you saw today?” 

This time, I held out the “seduction” heart, a bright scarlet coating covering a white chocolate shell filled with dark chocolate ganache and raspberries. 

I’d been expecting something along the lines of watching the boats pass on the Seine or the Eiffel Tower all lit up, but Harry surprised me with:

“Your face, the second time you came in me this afternoon.”

And what, in Merlin’s name, was I supposed to do at that, when the evil bastard leant forward and all but licked the treat from between my fingers with the most obscene suck of his mouth and swirl of his tongue.

Fuck me, Circe, this man was going to be the death of me. 

I tried to pretend like Harry’s words and actions had little effect on me, even though his knowing smirk said otherwise, and held up a fourth chocolate heart, this one a brilliant fuchsia and nicknamed the “pleasure” heart, the dark chocolate shell filled with salted pistachio praline.

“What would give you the most pleasure tomorrow?”

“Spending all day with you,” he answered, and, despite it sounding like a somewhat generic answer, I knew Harry was telling the truth, so I let him delicately pluck the fourth chocolate from my fingertips, congratulating myself on how I hadn’t flipped him onto his back and completely ravished him yet. 

“And what would give you the most pleasure right now?” I asked, softly, holding the last heart just above his mouth — this one a golden-brown colour, enrobing another white-chocolate shell filled with caramel and flakes of fleur de sel, which I’d saved for last for obvious reasons.

Harry didn’t even respond verbally, just leant forward, lewdly sucking the confection from my fingers as his hands reached for me, leaving no question as to his reply. 

***

**Paris Picnics & Passages Couverts**

_Saturday, 13 February 2010_

_13 February 2010_

_Draco’s POV_

“Thank you for the recommendation last night,” I told Pierre-Yves gratefully as he entered the room, breakfast tray held in his hands. “It was perfect.” 

I couldn’t help but glance over at Harry, who was still buried beneath the covers, the top of his head just barely visible above the duvet, and smile. 

“It’s very different from the Bateaux-Mouches, n’est-ce pas?” he asked, setting the breakfast tray on the table and arranging it just so. 

“Very,” I admitted. 

“Is there anything you would like for me to arrange for you today?” he asked, standing and looking at me expectantly.

Honestly, I’d just planned on taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather to show Harry some of my favourite food shops in Paris and taking our treasures for a picnic in the Square du Vert Galant, but I frowned, a thought coming to me suddenly. 

“Actually,” I said, briefly relaying my plans for the day to him. “Is there a chocolatier or pâtissier you’d recommend we stop at that specialises in caramel?”

“Why, Maison Georges Larnicol, of course,” Pierre-Yves replied immediately, and I glanced over at him curiously. 

He’d answered that rather quickly.

Perhaps Pierre-Yves also loved caramel, I mused. 

“He is famous for his _kouignettes_ ,” he continued. “Miniature kouign-amann in every flavour you could imagine, but my personal favourite is the one made with the salted caramel from Bretagne.

“You like caramel?” 

“No. I mean, yes,” I amended, because who didn’t like caramel. “But Harry loves it. 

“Me, I prefer chocolate, which I assume I can also find at this place?” 

“Absolutely,” Pierre-Yves affirmed with a nod, taking his mobile out of the inside pocket of his coat. “Although I would not necessarily recommend the macarons there. 

“The chocolates are very good — not Jean-Paul Hévin, of course — but good. And the kouignettes will be worth the stop alone.” 

“I’ve texted you the address,” he continued, replacing his mobile in his front pocket. “It’s on rue Rivoli. You said you were going to Poîlane next?”

I nodded.

“So you can pass in front of the Hôtel de Ville and then take the Pont St. Michel to see Nôtre Dame, and that way Harry can have a bit of sightseeing _en roûte_.” 

“Right,” I nodded, the route he’d suggested flashing past in my mind. “Then take St.-André-des-Arts, and…” 

“And, _voilà_ ,” he agreed with another smile.

There was a sigh, and some rustling from the bedroom, and I looked over to see Harry sitting up, stretching his arms over his head. 

“Bon-jour,” he sighed in two syllables around a huge yawn, and Pierre-Yves and I couldn’t help but chuckle. 

Merlin, but he was adorable right now, eyes blinking sleepily, his hair even more dishevelled than usual. 

“I will leave you now,” Pierre-Yves announced, switching to English. “If there is anything you need, please let me know. 

“ _Bon appetit_ _et bonne_ _journée_.” 

“Mmm,” Harry murmured, sitting up a little straighter. “Is that breakfast?” 

“It is,” I replied, sending his robe towards him so he could join me on the sofa. 

“This looks incredible,” he informed me, taking in the spread on the tray before us.

In one corner of the tray, two little cone-shaped baskets lined with white cloth napkins held a selection of baguettes, croissants, and pain au chocolat. 

Beside it four bowls — two filled with fresh-sliced bananas, kiwis, and strawberries, and two with fluffy scrambled eggs topped with chives and cherry tomatoes. 

Three miniature jars, two of them jam and the third honey, sat next to two deliciously creamy French-style vanilla yoghurts and a small dish holding a generous knob of butter. 

And, to finish it off, a plate of four French cheeses sat between two glasses of orange juice and two cappuccinos, making for a very hearty breakfast. 

Good thing I’d planned quite a walk through Paris for us before our picnic. 

Harry had already reached for his bowl of eggs and was eating happily as I Accio-ed a bottle of champagne and two flutes from the fridge, along with a stopper, figuring Harry and I probably wouldn’t finish the entire bottle at breakfast. 

“Thought we’d liven this boring orange juice up a bit,” I explained, pouring two glasses then tipping a bit of the orange juice into each, handing one to Harry with a smile.

“Which jam would you prefer?” I asked, holding up the two jars. “Raspberry or blueberry?” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had blueberry jam,” Harry replied, eating another bite of egg. “These eggs are bloody fantastic.” 

“Then blueberry for you it is,” I decided, setting it back on the tray so that I could spread butter and jam on a piece of baguette. 

“What are those?” Harry asked, pointing.

“Pain au chocolat,” I replied. “It’s a bit like a croissant with chocolate inside.” 

Harry immediately set his bowl of eggs aside, completely forgotten, as he reached excitedly for one of the flaky, square morsels, tearing it in half and dunking it into his cappuccino.

“They eat chocolate pastries for breakfast?” he asked, chewing happily. “The French have really got things sorted.” 

We continued our breakfast, mine highlighted by the delight Harry took in savouring each part, and I was glad I’d decided to add the plate of cheeses as he eagerly tried each one. 

“What are we doing today?” he asked, chewing another piece of baguette smeared with a generous amount of brie. 

“Picnic in the park,” I replied. “After we walk across half of Paris to get the supplies.” 

“Do I have time for a shower?” he asked, pouring himself another mimosa. 

I nodded.

“We don’t have any time frame to stick to,” I assured him, leaning over to kiss him gently on the cheek, because he was just so fucking adorable, licking bits of gooey brie from his fingertips. 

“So that means you can join me in the shower, then….” 

Emerald-coloured eyes slanted furtively up in my direction as Harry gently sucked the last of the Brie from his middle finger, and I decided that Harry definitely needed my help in the shower this morning. 

An hour or so later, Harry and I were off, the picnic backpack and blanket that Pierre-Yves had thoughtfully left for us at the reception strapped to Harry’s back (he’d insisted), deciding to walk the forty-five minutes to our first stop:

Caractère de Cochon — a tiny shop in the Marais that specialised in all things pork. 

Harry looked a little overwhelmed, much as I had the first time I’d stepped foot into the place and was confronted with the rows of refrigerated hams and prosciutto-like cured slabs, the hundreds of little sausages and giant legs of cured pork hanging from the ceiling.

Luckily, I knew exactly what we wanted.

And, if not, Solo, the shop’s owner, was the friendliest, most enthusiastic helper you could hope for to help you navigate the dizzying array of products.

“Bonjour,” I called out as we entered, Solo responding almost immediately, coming to greet Harry and I with a smile.

I ordered some jambon de Paris — one of, if not _the_ best in Paris — some of their tiny marinated tomatoes that tasted like a burst of sunshine on your tongue, and the tiny pickled cornichons that had just the perfect amount of tang. 

Solo then helped Harry and I select a few of the sausages from the vast selection, and we were on our way to the patisserie recommended by Pierre-Yves.

He had steered us right, I realised immediately as we entered, one wall lined with colourful macarons and several large wooden bins full of caramels.

Another wall held all manner of chocolates and chocolate-covered delights, while a third held the famous mini kouign-amann cakes in just about every flavour, sweet and savoury, imaginable. 

Harry was staring, slack-jawed, turning slowly so as to take in all of the wonders the shop offered. 

“I was going to say I feel like a kid in a candy shop,” he breathed. “Then I realised I _am_ a kid in a candy shop.” 

“Same,” I assured him. “I’ve never been here. Pierre-Yves recommended it for those.”

I pointed at the display of little cakes and Harry strolled over to investigate.

“They’re butter cakes from the northwest region of France,” I explained. “It’s basically caramelised butter, sugar, and salt with some dough to soak it all up. And this place makes miniatures in… well… a lot of flavours.” 

I gestured at the display.

“Pierre-Yves thought you might like the salted caramel ones,” I added, pointing at the little sign that read “caramel au beurre salé,” and Harry perked up.

I reached for one of the small boxes and pair of tongs and selected two of the treats. 

“What other flavours should we try?” I asked. 

“Chocolate,” Harry replied immediately. 

I obliged, then noticed some with orange marmalade and Cointreau, and decided we ought to try one of those as well. 

Harry wandered off in the direction of the caramel bins and I went to explore the chocolate, filling a little bag with chocolate-covered hazelnuts and another with some dark-chocolate disks topped with crystallised ginger. 

I looked for Harry across the shop and noticed that in addition to a little bag of caramels, he also had found the little jars of caramel the shop sold, complete with a little silver spoon attached. 

Harry had already opened his jar and was withdrawing the spoon from his mouth, and I could practically hear his sigh of pleasure from across the shop as his eyes slid shut. 

“Oh,” he said, eyes snapping open suddenly, glancing guiltily from the shop woman to me, then back again. “I’m sorry.” 

The shop lady laughed gently and glanced over at me.

“ _Oh, il_ _est_ _mignon_ ,” she told me with a conspiratorial wink and a little laugh, and I whole-heartedly agreed.

Harry guiltily eating caramel was cute, indeed.

“It’s alright,” she called out to him with a reassuring smile. “You can enjoy the caramel now, so long as you pay later.” 

Harry all but beamed back at her as he dipped the little spoon back into the jar and lifted another spoonful to his lips. 

A short while later, Harry and I had left the shop, goodies in tow, following the route past the ornate Hôtel de Ville and across the Pont Saint-Michel that Pierre-Yves had suggested.

And he had suggested well, judging by Harry’s wide-eyed stare at all the buildings as we made our way across the river to the Left Bank to the rue Saint-André-des-Arts, a small, bustling street full of little bars, restaurants, and take-away kebab and falafel shops that led us to our next stop:

Poîlane.

The best fucking bread in the entire goddamned world and I invite anyone to try to convince me otherwise.

The pain Poîlane is just to bloody die for — perfection — and a flavour that I would recognise anywhere, the slight tang of sourdough but somehow light, the crust perfectly crispy but the bread itself delightfully chewy and perfect. 

As I finished paying for our loaf, cut into perfect slices by the shop’s machine, the woman behind the counter offered us the traditional _punition_ _,_ small butter cookies, that the shop allowed every paying customer to take upon leaving. 

I selected two of the darker ones, knowing they would have a little more of that savoury, almost caramelised, crunch that Harry would love, smacking his hand away as he tried to select his own, hand heading for one of the lighter ones that only amateurs would go for. 

“Let me,” I scolded, holding the perfectly burnt cookie up to his mouth as the lady behind the counter giggled, knowing exactly why I’d searched out the slightly burnt cookies.

“Mmm,” Harry sighed. “Okay. You get to pick the cookies from now on.” 

Our next stop was Barthélemy — one of the best cheese shops in all of France, if I do say so myself. 

This teeny little shop boasted a whopping two-hundred or so different types of cheese, including their famous Fontainebleau, made fresh in-house each morning. 

Madame Nicole Barthélemy, the shop’s owner, greeted us as soon as we walked in, Harry’s jaw dropping again as he took in the walls lined with cheese. 

“This is your first time here,” she stated with a little, typical Parisian smirk that some foreigners might think haughty or rude, but I understood to be teasing. 

Harry laughed, clearly picking up on her dry sense of humour. 

“Yes,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “First time in Paris, really. I had no idea there were so many types of cheese.”

“Well, what sorts of cheese do you like? I will help you find the perfect selection.”

Harry paused and glanced over at me.

“Erm… all of them, so far?” 

“We’ll definitely take two of the Fontainebleau,” I began, and Madame Barthélemy beamed and bustled to a shelf against the back wall to pluck two little cups of the fluffy, creamy cheese bites that she, personally, churned by hand each morning and package them up for us.

“Also, we’re having a little picnic and managed to get some decent jambon de Paris,” I continued. “So I was thinking a Gruyère to go with, unless you have another suggestion?” 

She didn’t have so much another suggestion as a few types of Gruyère that we discussed until we selected the one Harry and I thought we’d enjoy the most. 

“And, just because I’m a glutton for good cheese… can we have a bit of the Rochebaron, Ossau-Iraty, and Mimolette?” 

Those were three of my favourite cheeses, and I’d have no problem bringing any leftovers back to London with me. 

The Rochebaron was a luscious, soft blue cheese that was simply sublime, almost as though someone had cut a creamy camembert with Roquefort. 

The Ossau-Iraty, a delicious, semi-firm Basque cheese with a sweet, nutty flavour that, literally, melted in your mouth.

And Mimolette? 

A bright orange cheese that many mistook for Cheddar — which I suppose was similar — but Mimolette boasted a much deeper flavour that was nutty, salty, and buttery all at the same time. 

While Mme Barthélemy cut and packaged our order, Harry and I wandered the shop. 

I noticed some small, heart-shaped Neufchatel cheeses and decided to add one of those to our order, calling over Roger, Mme Barthélemy’s faithful assistant, then glanced around to see what Harry was up to.

He was in deep conversation with Mme, both of them gesturing and talking animatedly over a display of goat cheese, and I smiled to myself. 

Apparently, Harry was as much as a cheese fiend as I was. 

Ten minutes later, we left the shop, our order, with the Neufchatel heart and Harry’s addition of an aged pélardon from the Cevennes region, packed on in the backpack, and we bade Mme Barthélemy goodbye. 

“I’d always heard the French take their cheese seriously,” Harry was saying as we made our way from the shop back toward the river. “But I don’t think I had any idea until now.” 

Harry and I continued on our way, me tucking his arm into my own as I led him down the Boulevard Saint Germain towards the little rue Guénégaud, where I had lived in a tiny studio for the first two years following the war. 

“There,” I said, pointing at the forest-green doorway fronting 27 rue Guénégaud. “That’s my building. 

“I lived on the top floor,” I added, and Harry's eyes followed where my finger was pointing. 

“Although my studio was the one overlooking the courtyard, so it was nice and quiet.” 

Harry beamed, as though knowing the general area where I’d lived in Paris was the most thrilling thing in the world and we continued up the street, stopping at a little _alimentation_ to pick up a few plums and kiwis, then crossed the Pont Neuf to the Square du Vert Gallant, one of my favourite picnic spots in Paris.

Of course, it was much nicer in the spring and summer, so I led Harry down to the riverside, where there were other couples enjoying the relatively mild Parisian winter day. 

I laid out the thick picnic blanket included with our picnic backpack and surreptitiously cast a warming spell around us so that Harry and I would be comfortable despite the chill and soon Harry and I were snuggled against each other, legs dangling over the edge of the concrete river edge, watching the boats pass and munching on a delicious sandwich made of the Poîlane bread, spread with some butter and laid with a generous amount of the jambon de Paris and gruyère then topped with the cornichons adding a delicious crunch and tart bite to the sandwich. 

We soon gave up on the formal sandwiches and began nibbling on the selection of cheese and cured sausages, occasionally with a piece of bread, more often without, washing it down with a sip of the delicious red wine Pierre-Yves had left inside of the drink holder of the backpack. 

“This is the best cheese I’ve ever had in my life,” Harry informed me a while later, slicing a large chunk of the Ossau-Iraty and taking a bite. 

“Which one is your favourite?” I asked, slicing myself another small piece of the Mimolette and popping it into my mouth, relishing the salty, buttery flavour that exploded over my tongue. 

“All of them,” Harry answered, moving to slice another piece of the pélardon, and I couldn’t help but fall even more in love with Harry.

Mum always joked that the French part of our ancestry had really taken root in me — apparently during my “picky-eater” toddler phase, I’d primarily subsisted on obscure French cheeses and charcuterie, throwing a literal tantrum if anyone tried to feed me something normal kids liked.

Merlin forbid something mundane like chicken goujons or fish and chips might have taken up precious real estate in my tiny three-year-old belly. 

“I’m glad you did, and all,” Harry began, starting his thought from the middle, as he often did, leaning against me chewing on another mouthful of cheese. “But how did you ever leave Paris? We’ve barely been here twenty-four hours and I already don’t want to leave.” 

I laughed.

“Trust me, I didn’t want to,” I replied. “But duty called.” 

“Ugh, I know how that goes,” he agreed, wrinkling his nose. “Is it time for dessert, yet?”

He tilted his head up to smile at me hopefully, and I laughed again as I reached into the backpack to pull out the box of kouignettes, selecting the chocolate one for myself, Harry, obviously, reaching for one of the salted caramel ones. 

“Fuck treacle,” Harry declared, eyes sliding shut as he chewed on his first bite of kouign amann. “This is my new favourite.” 

I leant down to kiss the top of his head as I enjoyed my own kouignette, the lacings of dark chocolate balancing perfectly with the rich, buttery pastry. 

“I wonder if Bessie knows how to make these?” 

“She could learn easily,” I replied. “And would, in a heartbeat, for you.” 

Bessie, unsurprisingly, had taken an immediate liking to Harry, and between her and Kreacher, Harry and I were spoilt, to say the least. 

“Ugh,” Harry groaned, slumping against me a few minutes later, holding his stomach. “I shouldn’t have eaten that second kouignette.”

I’d warned him. 

Really, I had.

But Harry’s love for caramel had won out, and he’d insisted on finishing the second little cake. 

“I think we’re ready for a long walk back to the hotel and then a nap,” I agreed, beginning to pack up our picnic

“Are you going to carry me?” he asked with another groan as he fell backwards to clutch at his stomach again. 

“No, silly,” I replied, smirking as I threaded my arms through the backpack straps. “What would be the point of walking it off if I carried you?” 

Harry groaned again, then stood, stooping down to gather up the blanket, rolling it up and stuffing it into the holder on the side of the backpack. 

“I thought we’d take a different route back,” I began, threading Harry’s arm through mine as we set off, crossing the small park, then climbing the steps back up to the Pont Neuf, and crossing to the Rive Droit. 

“Paris has a ton of these gorgeous covered passages, and we can see some of the best ones on our walk back.” 

We turned right onto the Quai du Louvre, Harry’s jaw dropping as we turned up the rue de l’Amiral Coligny and the palatial Eastern façade of the world-famous museum came into view. 

“Are we going there?” he asked.

“Not this trip,” I replied. “I’d rather we went when we could spend more time. 

“Also,” a thought dawned on me. “We might want to ask Malik if he has any advice for Islamic art here. They have a fabulous collection.

“But… we could take a detour through the Cour Carrée,” I offered, steering Harry towards the giant entry arch that led to the ornate 16th-century Renaissance courtyard. 

“This is gorgeous,” he stated, spinning slowly, taking in the architecture. 

“Do you think people who grew up in Paris have any idea how damned lucky they are?”

“Gee,” I pretended to ponder. “Did you have any idea how lucky you were growing up in London? 

“Not exactly a cultural wasteland….” 

Harry rolled his eyes as he slipped his hand back into mine.

“I didn’t grow up in London,” he defended himself. “I grew up in a cupboard in Surrey.” 

Ouch. 

Bad Draco. 

“Touché,” I replied as I drew him a bit closer and we exited via the equally ornate triple archway that deposited us back onto the rue de Rivoli.

“We’re going to pass through the Palais Royal next.”

I pointed as we headed a short way up the rue de Marengo, then veered left onto the rue Saint-Honoré. 

“There’s a famous modern art installation there — the colonnes de Buren. You might have seen pictures somewhere. It’s popular for posters and postcards…. these weird little black- and- white-striped columns, all different heights?”

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, nodding with that same boyish excitement he’d been exuding at nearly every sight since we’d landed in Paris. “I have seen those.”

We continued, entering via the Galerie des Chartres and making our way to the Cour d’Honneur, where Buren’s famous, and definitely controversial, striped columns stood. 

I took a few photos of Harry, beaming as he perched atop the columns of various heights, and snapped a few selfies of us, alternately looking at the camera, sharing a chaste kiss, or staring into each other's eyes like love-sick fools, before we continued on, passing through the Passage du Perron, lined with the perfectly-cropped rectangular trees Parisians loved so much. 

“So what are these covered passages you’re taking me to about?” Harry asked. 

“It’s similar to the covered markets we have in London,” I explained, as we exited the Palais Royal complex, crossing the rue Etienne Marcel to the rue Vivienne. 

“Like Leadenhall, for example,” I continued. “Basically a covered passage that gave people in the Victorian age shelter from the rain or a shortcut, and they lined it with shops and restaurants to lure them in.” 

I turned and allowed Harry to properly oggle the arched entryway into the Galerie Vivienne, topped by a wrought-iron decor and flanked by two sturdy lanterns. 

The passage was undeniably gorgeous — I was still quietly stunned by the gorgeous mosaic floors, the handsome wood details, and the soaring glass ceilings — and Harry and I poked about in a few shops as we meandered through the elegant passage before exiting onto the rue de la Banque, heading north and taking a left towards the Place de la Bourse then rejoining the rue Vivienne, Harry taking in the typical Parisian architecture along the way. 

Honestly, it was like learning the city all over again, watching his eyes travel up and down the elegant buildings, lingering on the romantic details such as a wrought-iron balcony or lovely sculpture gracing a door or archway. 

The Passage Jouffroy, another Victorian passage with soaring glass ceilings, was located just across the Boulevard Montmartre, adjacent to the Hotel Ronceray, where Rossini composed William Tell. 

Harry insisted we stop at Pain d’Epices, a toy store specialising in old-fashioned toys and trinkets, picking up several little _jouets_ for Victoire, Dominique, Louis, Hugo, and Manon, as well as a miniature train set for Teddy to build. 

He insisted on stopping again at Le Petit Roi, a small bookstore specialising in books and comic books for children, and I decided that all of our friends’ little ones were going to look forward to Harry and I travelling a lot more if he planned to shower them with this many presents each time we left England. 

Once we were back at the hotel, Harry immediately shrank his purchases and placed them carefully inside of his weekender, as though he were worried he might accidentally break or lose them before we went home. 

“Harry, love, do you mind if I take a look at my work file for a bit?” I asked, watching as he flopped onto the bed, already half asleep. 

“Mm-mm,” he mumbled. “Mgonnatakeanapnow.” 

“Alright. Do you want to get under the covers first?” 

“Mm-mm,” the reply came, sounding even sleepier than his first, and I was pretty sure Harry was already halfway to dreamland. 

Good. 

I really needed to look over this file, but I also didn’t want to neglect Harry for even a second this weekend. 

I sighed and Accio-ed the thick folder towards me, along with my laptop and file notes, unshrinking them as they came zooming towards the table and got started. 

Hermione and I, as well as the other researchers in the Thought room, had been busy the past few weeks — just research, for now, thankfully; I’d been enjoying my break from the field after that last encounter with Williams had affected me a little more personally than I would have liked. 

With that nutter locked away and awaiting trial, the Ministry was abuzz with talk of this growing movement demanding the end of the Statute of Secrecy as more witches and wizards found themselves increasingly interacting with Muggles. 

Of course, there were those who were equally adamant about keeping the statute in place.

And a third faction who wanted regulations to be even stricter, limiting interaction with Muggles to the bare minimum. 

There was also the international aspect to consider — I knew that Shacklebot and his team had been in several meetings with the ministries, cabinets, and various governing bodies of several other countries to discuss the growing movement.

Obviously, we couldn’t have the Muggle world suddenly aware of wizards in England, and only England, because they would, naturally, assume there were wizards in other countries. 

Our current task was to research the power of thought. 

Thought was what created change, really. 

It’s what had created our entire world as we know it — and when certain individuals become dissatisfied with their world, they turn to thought to change it — whether anyone realised it or not. 

Think about it.

There are several types of thought: thought that is belief, thought that is desire, thought that is intention.

We believe something, and although we may, or may not express that belief, all thoughts begin with a belief. 

Let’s use an example that hits close to home, shall we?

Williams had had a belief — one that had started nearly eight years ago when we’d both worked at MACUSA Boston — that he and I were meant to be. 

Fucking psycho shit-arse idiot. 

But also, a perfect example of how belief doesn’t, necessarily, follow plausibility, which brings me to my next point. 

Beliefs can be true or false. 

No.

Beliefs _must_ be true or false. 

As with our example. 

Williams _believed_ that we were destined to be together.

This was horribly false. 

But it could have, just as easily, been true — from a strictly philosophical standpoint, obviously. 

Desire, on the other hand, lays beyond the realm of fact. 

True and false mean nothing to desire.

The fact that Williams and I were definitely not meant for each other did nothing for his _desire_. 

And this leads to two paths, the first being that you simply change your belief to fit your world (another example: as a child, I believed clouds were made of candy floss, because what else could they have been made from? But as I grew older, evidence showed me that my belief was false, and so I changed my belief to fit my world.)

The other path is where one, such as Williams, decides to change their world to make their belief true. 

And that’s when thought becomes _intent_. 

Williams, the bloody psycho, had reacted in a perfectly predictable way, given the way thought works, really. 

It was just too bad his brilliant mind had been wasted on a stupid fucking infatuation. 

His actions — and ability to plan and follow through on said actions — were really no different from any revolutionary leader you could name who carried his own beliefs to reality and changed the worlds of those affected by their actions. 

So now, some people _believed_ a world where wizards, openly using magic, and Muggles co-existing was possible. 

This was _probably_ true — at least so long as “co-exist” meant we could interact as peaceably as we did with one another in our concurrent worlds. 

Some people _desired_ this world. 

And some people _intended_ to make this their reality. 

How would this intent manifest?

And how would those against the lifting of the Statute of Secrecy retaliate?

They had their own sets of beliefs, desires, and intents, you realise. 

Should we move forward with ending the Statute?

What dangers did we face in doing so? 

From both Muggle and wizard sources?

France had been asking themselves the same questions over the past two years — a combination of their pro-ending of the statute faction having formed years earlier, and that faction being much more vocal than ours.

Typical.

The French loved a good protest and an inconvenient strike, wizard or Muggle.

It was thrilling and interesting and frustrating all at the same time.

Don’t get me wrong — I loved the research and philosophy of it. 

However, it was frustrating how abstract it all was for now, although I had no doubt it would change into something more concrete in the future.

The question was when?

And how? 

A few hours later, I was still researching the philosophy of thought and the mind, and looking up relevant examples, when I felt a pair of arms wrap around my shoulders, Harry sliding his body down along my back, and my brain immediately told all thoughts of work to fuck off. 

“Up from our nap, are we?” I asked, pretending to be unaffected as he wrapped his arms around me and buried his face into my neck. 

“I’m not we,” he replied, placing gentle kisses along one side of my neck. “I’m just Harry.” 

“Mmm,” I replied, sending my work off, all of it collapsing and disappearing into the closet and into my luggage, forgotten for the time being.

“You are not,” I countered, leaning back against one arm of the sofa and pulling him over and down on top of me. 

“You’re _my_ Harry,” I corrected him as he leant down and pressed a gentle kiss to my mouth, then nuzzled his face in my neck again, and I couldn’t help but inhale the scent of his hair, smelling of shampoo, and sleep, and Harry. 

He smiled lazily as he lifted his head to kiss me softly. 

“Your Harry,” he repeated. “Merlin, you spoil me….” 

Get used to it, Potter, I thought to myself, wrapping my arms around him. 

“As I well should,” I said aloud. “My beautiful, lusty, insatiable, bloody perfect Harry.”

I emphasised each little description with a kiss, and by the time I’d reached the end of the sentence, Harry’s hands were fumbling with my trousers, making quick work of the fastenings as he licked desperately into my mouth. 

“You’d be bloody insatiable if you were your boyfriend, too,” he informed me, and I groaned at that, because no matter how many times you heard it, knowing that the man of your fucking dreams was just as mad for you never got old. 

Also, Harry had slid off me and was now kneeling on the floor, tugging me upright so that he could kneel between my thighs as he vanished the rest of my clothing away, which could only mean one thing, and I’d be a bloody fool not to get excited about that. 

I don’t think it could ever get old, the way Harry’s eyes would flutter closed, tongue darting out to lap at his lower lip as he leant forward to suck gently at the head of my cock, tongue caressing as he leant back, teeth drawing his lower lip in, almost as though savouring the moment, before leaning forward again. 

“Harry…” 

I might have sighed it or merely thought it as Harry sucked just the tip in once more, just enough to make my breath hitch in anticipation before he drew back, right hand snapping up to catch the phial of lube that came rocketing out of the closet. 

“Dirty rotten trick you played,” he accused, tipping the bottle into his palm and rubbing his hands together gently. 

“Flavouring the lube with treacle,” he went on, reaching one hand out to gently fondle my bollocks as the other began to stroke my length.

Slowly. 

Arsehole. 

Harry pretended to glare up at me, mouth a perfect reddened pout as his hands continued to work me.

Fuck, but the combination of his hands, his face, and the fucking lube were almost too much.

“Harry… _please_.” 

Harry just leant forward again, licking a lewd stripe up my cock that, thanks to my brilliant fucking lube, sent almost electric shocks of pleasure radiating throughout me, and my body shuddered almost embarrassingly as I cried out, hands clutching at Harry, begging him to continue. 

“Mmm.” 

Harry merely gave a content sigh as he continued to lick random paths up and around my cock, the teasing patterns of his tongue becoming longer and wider and I let out a wall-shattering groan of pleasure as Harry finally swallowed my entire length, the already wicked heat and suction of his mouth further enhanced by the lube, and I had a brief thought that maybe I ought not to brew it anymore, because Hades have mercy, Harry’s fucking mouth did not need any help.

Maybe, I somehow managed to smirk to myself, I ought to brew a lube that made you able to hold out for hours and make _that_ taste like treacle.

See what Harry thought of that.

Literally sucking me off for hours, wondering why I wouldn’t cum.

Then again, he probably wouldn’t mind, I realised as Harry moaned around my length, right hand reaching down to palm at himself through his trousers, and I helpfully magicked them away so he could touch himself properly.

Entirely for his benefit, obviously.

Nothing in it for me, watching Harry wank himself as his mouth continued to work my cock.

“As though you didn’t know exactly what it would do to me,” he muttered, pulling off briefly, and it took me a second to realise he was still talking about the lube.

“I aim to please,” I quipped.

“Aim?” 

Another torturously slow lick, his tongue resting gently on his bottom lip so that I could feel the slick velvet of his tongue followed by the gentle sweep of his lip, and I couldn’t hold back the whimper at that.

So, naturally, Harry repeated the motion.

“Where are you aiming this time?” 

“Where do you want it?” 

Merlin, it was far too quick, but I was so fucking close. 

Harry merely licked another obscene path up my cock, tongue pressing into the pulsing vein beneath, until the head of my cock rested, heavy, on his tongue.

Emerald eyes flicked up at me, the naughtiest bloody stare I'd ever seen in my life flashing through them as Harry’s tongue gave the slightest curl against the sensitive ridge where head connected to shaft, and I lost all hope of control, eyes squeezing shut momentarily as the shock of my orgasm ripped through me.

You know the sort.

Where you think you’ve maybe got your shit under control because you were about to imagine Voldemort naked or whatever the fuck it is you think about to keep from popping off too soon, but it’s too fucking late, and it happens anyway.

And, Merlin, if I couldn't have cum again right there, the way Harry’s eyes smirked up at me as he just knelt there, mouth open, head of my cock still resting on his tongue each pearly white stripe of my release splashing in time with each pulse of my cock and gathering on his tongue before he finally dragged the tip of his tongue up along the bottom of my cockhead, dipping slightly into my slit, before sliding it back into his mouth, throat swallowing a second later, eyes fluttering shut briefly before locking on mine once more.

Fuck, Harry was filthy sometimes, I reminded myself as his mouth quirked up into a smirk. 

I told him so, too.

Exactly that as I collapsed back onto the sofa, and he snorted with laughter as he joined me, waving a hand to clean us off.

“You’re one to talk,” he retorted, back to his snuggly, Hufflepuff self, curling against my side.

“I wasn’t complaining.” 

“What are we doing for dinner?” he asked. 

“You’re always hungry,” I teased, leaning down to kiss the top of his head.

“I need to eat a lot,” he insisted. “I train very hard for work.” 

Harry’s stomach let out a well-timed growl, as though backing up his statement, and we both giggled. 

“What are you in the mood for?” 

“I dunno.” Harry frowned. “I don’t know anything about French food.”

“We’re in Paris,” I reminded him. “They’ve got just about every cuisine imaginable… except maybe Mexican.” 

I hadn’t sought it out in a while, but last I’d checked, Paris wasn’t boasting the best Mexican cuisine in the world. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had Mexican food,” Harry admitted. “But I could go for some pizza if Paris has got that.” 

I had a sudden idea, hoping that the unusually mild weather was holding out. 

“Would you be up for trying some… rather unorthodox pizzas?”

Harry glanced at me sceptically. 

“What’s that mean?”

“It means they’re delicious, but you’re not going to find just pepperoni or a traditional Margherita, or whatever.

“But one of their locations is along the Canal St. Martin, and, if the weather’s warm enough to cast a warming spell without causing suspicion, they’ll deliver it to us along the canal and we can eat it there — it’s quite romantic, in a different sort of way.” 

“Yes,” Harry replied, nodding emphatically. “I like the sound of all of that.” 

After a quick shower, I Apparated us just around the corner from the little pizza shop on rue Bichat — the Pink Flamingo. 

“Draco,” Harry murmured, holding the English menu in his hand, eyes doing that adorable rapid-scan thing he did when trying to make a decision.

“Will you just pick something for me?” 

“Of course,” I replied, already knowing that I’d be getting the Ho Chi Minh - topped with diced chicken that had been simmered in green coconut curry and lemongrass, then topped with cheese, chopped peanuts, and fresh coriander. 

“Which ones are you deciding between?” 

Harry pointed out a few, and I grinned, already knowing which one to pick.

“How about the Obama?” 

The pizza featured sautéed lardons — the French-style thick-cut bacon cubes — and homemade grilled pineapple chutney, which, even for those who hated pineapple on their pizza, made for a delicious combination.

“Okay.”

After putting in our order, Harry and I strolled towards the Canal Saint-Martin, sipping on their signature Pink Flamingo beers, the bright pink balloon that would alert our delivery moped to our location clutched tightly in Harry’s right hand. 

“That’s so neat,” he was saying, eyes staring up at the pink balloon excitedly. “I don’t know why… but I love it.” 

“There’s something innocent and child-like about carrying a balloon and waiting for pizza,” I agreed. “Even though I suspect neither of us really experienced either growing up.” 

Harry and I found an isolated bench along the canal and settled down, noticing other couples, some even with pink balloons waiting, and decided it would be alright to eat our pizza here after casting a small warming charm once it was delivered.

A short while later, Harry and I were happily munching on our respective pizzas, sharing, obviously, and sipping on another round of the house beer, Harry snuggled against me, as he always did when he could. 

“This is nice,” he announced, grabbing another slice of his Obama pizza and lifting it to my lips. “Someone ought to do something like this in London, don’t you think?” 

“It’d be nice,” I replied, leaning forward to take a bite, savouring the perfectly crisp bacon cubes and the accompanying salty-sweet tang of the pineapple chutney. 

“I like your pizza better,” Harry informed me, eyeing the last slice of the Ho Chi Minh pizza jealously. 

“It’s all yours,” I assured him, grabbing the slice he’d been feeding me so that he could help himself to the last of my slice. 

“So… is Pierre-Yves really just sitting around, just in case we call him for something?” he asked suddenly, after we’d finished our slices and were just sitting, snuggling and staring at the lights on the canal. 

“I mean,” I began, then frowned. 

Honestly, I don’t know that I’d ever considered what a butler or other servant might be doing when a request might come in at any moment. 

I mean, don’t get me wrong.

I wasn’t an arsehole… I wouldn’t ring them unnecessarily past a reasonable hour, but I’d certainly never considered what they might be doing. 

And, as for a hotel butler, I had no idea if the poor bloke was supposed to wait around at the hotel or if he could wait at home.

Wait.

What if he couldn't stay at home?

Then what?

Merlin, Harry, with a single question, had got me thinking, once again, about how fucked up and silly the world I’d been raised in was. 

“I hope not….” was all I said, in the end. 

However, our answer was quite plain once we arrived back at our room and saw the living area neat and tidied and the bedsheets turned down perfectly in the bedroom.

On each of our pillows laid an odd-looking box holding what appeared to be a lollipop, and a few other treats dotting our pillows.

On closer inspection, they were, respectively, a milk-chocolate-and-salted-caramel lollipop and several caramels for Harry, and a dark-chocolate lollipop with a small box of four premium chocolates for me.

All from the master chocolatier Jean-Paul Hévin, and I couldn’t help but feel especially lucky with Pierre-Yves, knowing that he’d gone and searched these out after learning both Harry’s and my preferences this morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also started posting this story on Wattpad, so it's worth the re-read if you like pictures! (Seriously, thought, just go to see photos of the Zabinis. I would die to have that as my home. I'm really weird, and have always just loved looking at houses, and floorplans. Like, my grandparents lived near Disneyland and my "treat" if I was good on the car-ride there was that I got to pick out a model/for sale homes to tour with them on the way home the next day? Like, the treat wasn't Disneyland. It was getting to tour houses. WTF is wrong with me?!?!)
> 
> Anyhoo. I'd taken to perusing London flats/houses for sale and saving the photos and floorplans of the ones that struck me as "the one" for a particular character, but I swear, when I was looking for a home to envision as the Zabinis', I'd found a few I thought were good, then this one popped up and I was like "I'm pretty sure the Zabinis are real people, and this is their house."


	4. A Parisian Valentine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How will our boys spend their actual Valentine's Day in Paris?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taking so long to update!   
> Being back at work full-time is much more time-consuming than I ever would have thought and leaves me so exhausted at the end of the day, I really struggle to write... which pains me because I LOVE writing.   
> And then I force myself, but then read over it the next day, and am like "Uh, no. This is crap...." 
> 
> So... anyway. It's not really an excuse, but more an explanation. I really appreciate all of you readers and all of your comments, so please leave more, and, hopefully this next chapter comes together much more quickly!

_Sunday Morning_

_14 February 2010_

_Draco’s POV_

_“Je_ _t’aimerai_ _jusqu’au_ _bout du temps…”_

_“I will love you until the end of time…”_

_\- Jean_ _d’Ormesson_

I’m not actually sure who woke first.

I only know that when I opened my eyes, Harry’s were blinking up at me, a sleepy, content smile on his face, and I just had to bend my head down to brush his lips with my own. 

“Morning,” I yawned, stretching out alongside him, circling my feet to loosen my ankles up a bit, wondering if when I turned thirty in a few months I’d just tumble straight over the proverbial hill or something. 

“Morning,” he replied, still beaming up at me, eyes sparkling excitedly now that he was fully awake, and I decided to tease him a bit, knowing Harry was excited about _actual_ Valentine’s Day.

“What are you smiling so prettily about?” I asked, frowning down at him, trailing my left hand along his back as I propped myself up on my other elbow.

“Shut up,” he replied, still grinning like a fool, stretching up for another kiss. “You know damned well why I’m smiling.” 

I glanced off to the side and shook my head. 

“Afraid I don’t.” 

“Quit being dense, you arse.” 

Harry wasn’t buying my act for a second, apparently. 

He accompanied his order with a firm swat to the side of my head — not enough to hurt, obviously, but enough that I felt it, and I glared down at him whilst pretending to rub at my head.

“See,” he chided, arms reaching up to wrap around my neck and tangle in my hair as he smiled up at me once more. 

“If you weren’t such an exasperating git, and if you would have just ravished me like a proper boyfriend, that wouldn’t have happened.” 

“Abuse, Potter,” I accused. “That’s the first sign — telling the victim it’s _their_ fault they got smacked.” 

“Oh, shut up. You know damned well you could handle anything I ever threw your way.

“Now hurry on with it and ravish me already.” 

“Ravish?” I asked, leaning down once more to press lingering kisses along Harry’s jawline, his overnight stubble tickling my lips. 

“I don’t think so.”

I tilted my head up to kiss him soundly on the mouth before he could protest.

“There’ll be no ravishing here,” I continued, swirling my tongue into his mouth. 

“This is Valentine’s Day.”

I took a few moments to lick back into his mouth, allowing myself to indulge and let our tongues tangle for a bit before pulling away.

“Which is about love.”

Another eager kiss. 

“And appreciation.”

Yet another kiss. 

“And adoration,” I sighed, tilting his head to the side so that I could trail kisses down the side of his neck.

“And that takes a bit more time than a mere ravishing.”

Harry groaned into my mouth as I captured his lips once more, tongue delving in to reacquaint myself with the moist, velvety heat of it, his tongue rising to meet mine, and I allowed myself to get lost in the kiss.

Honestly, kissing Harry was a dangerous thing.

He was a very powerful wizard, remember, who could, apparently, make you completely forget all concepts of time. 

I finally managed to drag my mouth away from his to kiss down the side of his neck, searching out new spots to make my Harry’s breath hitch.

This was one of my favourite parts about falling in love — with anyone, really — but especially Harry. 

I mean, I’d known since the first time we’d fucked that the obvious spot where neck meets collarbone was particularly sensitive.

But I’d recently discovered that placing my mouth a mere millimetre further up and back on his neck, licking and sucking there, elicited such a desperate gasp and made Harry’s body flex and cling to me so fucking sweetly, I was almost upset for not having discovered it sooner. 

What other sweet spots could I find? 

I continued my path down Harry’s neck to his torso, revelling in the way his arms and legs held me close, head thrown back, no other care in the world than to beg me to continue with his body and with his sighs and moans of pleasure. 

My mouth discovered another sensitive patch, about halfway down his right torso, at that spot where chest curved round to meet side, and I lingered a few moments to swirl and suck gently before continuing my path, pausing, as always, to lick and trace down the indentations at his hips, practically burying my face in the incredible softness where hip became groin. 

I’m not kidding — Harry’s skin here felt like fucking silk, and I couldn’t help pressing chaste kisses and tickling him gently with the tip of my nose. 

Above me, Harry sighed, hands tangling lazily in my hair, already well aware of my obsession with this particular part of him, and I turned my face, ignoring the tickle of wiry curls against my cheek so that I could lick my way up Harry’s cock before sucking him down, intent on paying him back for the several, frankly, mind-blowing blowjobs he’d showered me with the past few days. 

One of my hands reached down to fondle his bollocks as I continued with the leisurely pace my mouth had set before reaching down to circle and press lightly at his entrance with one finger until I felt it give way and I pressed in, allowing my finger to follow the rhythm of my mouth, still sucking and slurping along Harry’s length as he relaxed, thighs falling even further apart in encouragement as his own fingers tangled themselves in my hair.

I pulled away, finally, giving one last longing suck at the flared head of his prick before turning my head slightly to lick and nuzzle at the satiny skin along his inner thigh, working my way down to tease at the sensitive crease behind his knee.

Above me, Harry whined a bit, hands twisting and tugging gently at my hair, urging me back up.

And for once, I obliged, sliding up Harry’s body to capture his mouth in another kiss. 

As Harry worked his impossible kissing magic on me again, my fingers returned to play with his hole, sliding just the middle one slowly in and out of Harry’s slick entrance until he was all but hissing and clawing at me. 

And if Kitten didn’t all but fucking purr and arch his back impossibly high of the bed, practically offering his throat up for me to lick and bruise once I finally decided to slide a second finger inside of him.

And if that didn’t still — after nearly a goddamned year — make my cock jerk, and breath hitch, and eyes flutter shut at how goddamned hot it was. 

“Gods, Harry,” I sighed, lifting my head so I could plunder his mouth again. “I love you so goddamned much.” 

“Not as much as I love you,” he replied between kisses, our tongues licking lustily into each other’s mouths, bodies grinding and sliding against each other, slowly, as though they knew we had the entire bloody day to argue this out. 

Honestly, Potter.

You… love me… more than I love you?

Silly Gryffindor.

“What do you love most about me?” he continued, still lazily swirling his tongue in and out of my mouth, twining it with mine, no battle for dominance or anything remotely of the sort.

Just… lazy, sweet, ridiculously besotted kissing. 

Before I could even try to respond, Harry began.

“I love how you leave me cheeky notes nearly every morning,” he began, detaching his mouth from mine and allowing his head to flop down on the pillow, a smile crinkling his eyes as he stared up at me. 

“The way you dance around the flat… that you’re actually a silly goofball.”

He paused and smirked up at me.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone how much you love pulling those ridiculous faces of yours.” 

I responded by contorting my face into an absurd grimace.

“That good?” I asked, a little giggle escaping my lips as Harry gave a little laugh of his own.

“Not that your ego needs it, but even that face couldn’t make you ugly.” 

I leant back down, ready to get on with snogging and loving my Harry on Valentine’s Day, but he continued.

“How witty you are.”

He leant up to press one of those goddamned kitten kisses into my mouth, and I immediately tried to follow his mouth down, but he raised a finger to my lips, a knowing little smirk on his face. 

“How you sing, way too loudly, when you’re cooking.”

I decided the only proper response was to retaliate by sucking his finger into my mouth.

“How naughty you are…” he added, eyes darkening just a shade, and I made sure to suck just a little harder as I drew his finger back into my mouth. 

“How smart you are.” 

Harry paused and allowed me to kiss him properly for a moment. 

“Your mussed up morning hair,” he continued with an impish gleam in his eyes, one hand lifting to deliberately fuck with my hair. 

Arse. 

He ignored my glare and reached up to kiss me again. 

“That you’re not as indifferent as you’d have people believe.” 

Fuck.

I already knew I was looking left and biting my lip, so I forced myself to look back at Harry.

“How you take care of me,” he said, those bloody eyes of his staring straight at me like he knew exactly what his words and gaze were doing to my insides. 

Harry glanced, a tad shyly, off to his right.

“… not a lot of people can do that. 

He blinked, then fastened his gaze back up at me. 

And, you realise, this kind of openness wasn’t really something my Slytherin brain could even begin to fathom, let alone prepare for mentally, and all I could do to respond was groan and all but devour Harry’s mouth, grinding myself down into him even more than I already had been.

“I…” 

“Shh.” 

Another kitten kiss.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Another kiss. “I know.” 

“You’re… everything,” I managed, mouth still moving against Harry’s, tongue still seeking his, and I almost missed the hitch in his breath as we finally gave in, mouths and bodies both crushed together as our tongues delved frantically into each other’s mouths, moaning as our bodies gave up their gentle, sweet slide against one another and began grinding urgently, demanding more. 

I knew Harry was convinced that when I slid into him so slowly, as I did now, my cock only pressing into him halfway before sliding back out, it was to tease him and make him beg.

And he wasn’t wrong, necessarily.

But it was also because my own lust-blown brain could barely fathom how fucking incredible Harry felt. 

The slick, tight heat of him moulded itself around me, urging me forward, to lose myself in the way Harry’s arse practically swallowed me, and if I listened and allowed myself to give in the way I wanted — allowed myself to sink all the way into that sweetly begging channel, then it would all be over much too quickly. 

Instead, I closed my eyes and forced myself to pause before sliding back out, reluctantly, as Harry clutched and writhed beneath me, whimpering and groaning his dissatisfaction as I repeated this a few more times.

“Draco,” he moaned, one hand tangling in my hair to force my mouth to connect with his, the sneaky bastard clearly aware what kissing him did to my self-control. 

“Don’t tease,” he begged. “Not right now.” 

“Not teasing,” I replied, already losing myself in the tight heat of Harry, the sweet warmth of his mouth and the way his arms and legs wrapped themselves around me, encouraging me to continue, sinking more and more of my length into him with each thrust until I was drowning, completely engulfed by Harry, and _fuck_ , but he felt perfect. 

Below me, Harry gave a half-sigh, half-moan of encouragement, legs wrapping themselves even more tightly around me as his hips snapped up to meet my own, and it wasn’t long before I felt that telltale tightening in my groin followed by those tingling waves of pleasure, as though every nerve in my body were pulsing along with my cock as I came, mouth latching onto that spot on Harry’s neck, feeling his body clench even more tightly around mine mere seconds later. 

“Mmm,” he sighed a few moments later, turning to nuzzle into my neck. “Is it naptime now?” 

“Yes,” I teased. “We deserve one. We’ve been awake for nearly a whole half-hour already.” 

“What are we doing today? I mean, do you have plans or…” 

I mean, I had planned on taking Harry to see the “Je t’aime” wall nearby, where “I love you” was written in a few hundred different languages, then continuing along to explore the Goutte d’Or neighbourhood, showing Harry one of my favourite, and least stereotypical, neighbourhoods in Paris. 

But… alternately snuggling, fucking, and napping in bed with Harry all day also sounded like a brilliant idea. 

“It’s up to you. We could go explore another part of Paris or we can stay here.” 

Harry frowned in thought for a few seconds, then gifted me with one of his brilliant smiles brimming with child-like excitement.

“Let’s go exploring. I want to see more of Paris.” 

I sent Pierre-Yves a quick text, asking him to have breakfast brought up soon, then busied myself with encouraging Harry through the showering process without falling prey to his numerous attempts to turn our quick morning shower into something else entirely, and when we emerged, scrubbed clean and wrapped in our fluffy robes, our breakfast tray was sitting on the table before the sofa. 

Harry was on the sofa so quickly, one hand already eagerly reaching for a pain au chocolat, I wondered if he might have Apparated the few metres across the room, and I couldn’t help but watch him as he sank his teeth into the flaky, buttery pastry, eyes fluttering shut as he smiled and chewed happily. 

I curled up beside him and reached for a piece of the baguette, then noticed a silver tube next to the miniature jams with a small note tucked beside it.

“ _I think both you and Harry will enjoy this with your morning tartine. It is wonderful with the raspberry jam.”_

It was a tube of Jean-Paul Hévin’s dark chocolate-caramel spread that already had me salivating as I prepared my tartine, with just a smear of butter, a generous amount of the chocolate-caramel, all topped off with fresh raspberry jam. 

I’d all but forgotten about Harry, my eyes closed in bliss as I enjoyed that first bite, and when I opened my eyes, eager for another taste of the chocolate-caramel-raspberry laden bread, I was almost startled to see Harry’s emerald eyes staring at me curiously.

“What’s that?” he asked, reaching for the tube of chocolate.

“Mine,” I replied, taking another bite whilst jerking the precious tube out of Harry’s reach. 

If I — someone who was capable of eating in public without making lewd noises of pleasure — was this enamoured with the stuff, could you imagine what Harry would do if he got his hands on it? 

Not for nothing was Harry a professional sportsman, however, and all of him seemed to perk up at the prospect of a challenge.

“Says who?” he asked, already lunging for the tube in my left hand.

I’d already anticipated his silly Gryffindor likelihood of trying to physically wrestle the treat from me and casually sent it floating up and across the room, far above his reach. 

“Malfoy,” he snarled, eyes turning to my nearly devoured bit of bread. 

“Not everything has to be a challenge,” I admonished. 

“Yes, it does,” he countered, and next second I found myself with a lapful of Harry, grinning as he leant forward, trying to capture my lips with his own.

“Come on,” he wheedled. “Let me have a bite.” 

I sighed and relinquished my last piece of bread, allowing Harry to nibble it from between my fingers, not sure whether to curse or profusely thank Pierre-Yves at the positively lusty moan and look of pleasure that washed over Harry’s face as he savoured the last of my tartine.

“That’s… good,” he pronounced, eyes opening and staring almost dazedly up at the tube of chocolate, still floating above our heads.

“Pierre-Yves might be my new favourite person,” he added with a grin as the tube of chocolate came tumbling down into his outstretched palm.

I rolled my eyes and playfully shoved Harry from my lap so that we could continue breakfast and get on with our morning, sending Pierre-Yves a quick text to thank him for the thoughtful gift, and to ask him to work his turndown magic with a little Valentine’s day decor for when Harry and I returned this afternoon. 

If he’d managed to find us such personalised, wonderful treats without me even asking, I was curious to see what he could do when given a more specific task. 

A few texts later, my attention was back with Harry as we walked along the cobbled rue l’Epic, pointing out the red canopy of the Café des 2 Moulins, made famous in the movie _Amélie_ , which I knew was a favourite of his. 

Harry assured me that he didn’t want to stop for a quick coffee at the now-famous café, and we continued along the narrow streets, Harry looking only up and nearly tripping every few steps, but still somehow looking so adorably excited I couldn’t even care.

I led him along the streets and then through the small park until we came to a stop in front of the wall, and I forced Harry to stop staring up at the trees and the sky, like he’d never seen nature before, to focus on the black tile wall emblazoned with an almost dizzying amount of words scrawled in white, accented by splashes of red that I knew represented a broken heart — that of humanity, and not necessarily any singular human’s — but poignant, all the same. 

“What’s this?” he asked, looking at the wall with interest, then glancing around at some of the other couples canoodling around us. 

“It’s the ‘I Love You Wall’,” I explained simply, and Harry looked back up at the wall with renewed interest.

“Those all say ‘I love you’?” he asked. “Wow… I don’t even recognise most of these languages.”

“I think there are nearly three-hundred different languages represented.”

My eyes flicked over the wall, seeing if I could identify any new languages since my youth, like an odd game of hide-and-seek or Where’s Waldo. 

“Still not nearly enough, though,” Harry mused quietly, and I frowned down at him. 

“Ways to tell you so,” he clarified with a brilliant smile, those stupid eyes of his sparkling so openly and honestly up at me, my breath hitched, and so, naturally, I resorted to snarky Slytherin bullshit. 

“You’d probably butcher the pronunciation on half of them.” 

I couldn’t help the giddy little chuckle that escaped at the thought of Harry’s voice tripping clumsily over some of the languages I saw represented. 

“You’d still love it,” he countered, arms gently encircling my neck as he stepped closer, pressing himself up against me in that manner he had where I wasn’t quite sure if it was cute or obscene, and I allowed myself to lean down and indulge us with a quick kiss.

“Well, go on then,” I teased, eyes darting back towards the wall. “You’d better get started. Three-hundred’s a lot.” 

Harry laughed and shoved at me playfully before turning back towards the wall, brow furrowing in concentration. 

He glanced back at me and said something completely unintelligible, but clearly meant to be his attempt at one of the many phrases on the wall.

I burst out laughing, and Harry grinned, repeating his gibberish and pointing at one of the phrases. 

“Harry, love, that one’s not even written in a Latin alphabet.” 

“I tried, though. Better than you can say.” 

“ _Ti_ _amo_ _._ _Ich Liebe Dich. Te_ _quiero_. _Ya_ _tebya_ _lyublyu_ _.”_

Harry just glared up at me.

“Very Euro-centric, you’re right,” I conceded, pretending to mistake the reason for Harry’s petulant scowl. “I’ll work on that.” 

We did manage to settle down and snap a few photos — some of them very silly, some of them very… not — to add to our holiday photo album, before we continued our mid-morning stroll through Montmartre.

“Ugh. _Stairs,_ ” Harry groaned, slumping against me dramatically when we made a turn and were faced with one of the neighbourhood’s many steep staircases.

“Really, Potter? Aren’t you some sort of professional athlete, or something?” 

Harry glared at me, then took off, darting up the stairs without any warning.

“Race you!” he shouted gleefully, and I already regretted the split second I’d wasted before launching myself up the stairs, chasing after Harry as quickly as I could. 

Harry may have been the professional athlete of the two of us, but my Unspeakable training was no joke, and I not only managed to catch up, but to overtake Harry.

“Just pretend there’s a Snitch flying around up top,” I taunted as I sprinted past him. “That usually helps you speed up.” 

I had just reached the top of the stairs when I was nearly bowled over by Harry, who grabbed me from behind, arms wrapping around my waist, my feet literally lifting off the ground as he spun us in a few circles.

“You’re right,” he managed, breath coming in short gasps as he rested his forehead on my shoulder. “Just had to look for that flash of silvery-gold to get the adrenaline going.” 

I tried to glare at him but couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face, so settled for a rueful shake of my head instead.

“Honestly, Potter… can’t take you anywhere.” 

I tucked his arm into mine, and we continued until we found ourselves overlooking the green expanse of the Butte de Montmartre and the city sprawled out below us, me insisting that we take advantage of this lovely photo opp.

Harry’s eyes were already staring in awe at the gleaming white cupola of Sacré-Coeur, and we continued our stroll past with me swatting away the incessant hands of the men and boys who crowded the steps leading up to the Sacré-Coeur, tying sloppily crafted string bracelets onto the arms of unsuspecting tourists then demanding payment, so that Harry could gaze up at the impressive stone basilica in peace. 

We then snapped the prerequisite photo in front of Paris’ famous “sinking house”, sharing a sweet snog on the (forbidden) grass hill that created the optical illusion, and then another of Harry pretending to casually flick it over with his finger, a knowing smirk on his face, because anyone who knew Harry knew he could have actually flicked it over with his finger, had he wanted to. 

We indulged in another race down the stairs of the extremely narrow Passage Cottin, Harry winning this time, and another short walk before we arrived at Café Lomi, an amazing coffee shop that roasted their own beans, and also, if we were lucky and here on the right day, served some of the best chocolate cake in all of Paris. 

We took our time, snuggled beside one another on one of the leather couches, sipping our drinks and feeding each other bites of our respective mid-morning snacks — Harry had opted for a luscious slice of cheesecake covered with a fresh passion fruit coulis and I had, predictably, ordered the chocolate cake. 

And by the time we’d finished all that decadence, we decided we definitely needed an additional walk to take in the graffiti art along the rue Ordener that the café faced before meandering our way back towards the Sacré-Coeur, keeping our eyes open for any restaurant that caught our eye for lunch. 

We had just about reached the basilica when Harry paused, glancing at our left.

“I’ve never had Vietnamese food.” 

Well, that was lunch, then, I thought, tugging gently at Harry’s elbow to guide him into the bright yellow façade of La Colline d’Asie. 

Shared bowls of their famous Bo Bun and Beef Pho were, apparently, the perfect ending to our afternoon in Montmartre, despite the snot and constant nose-blowing the pho (admittedly made quite spicy by our generous additions of the house-made chilli paste) caused. 

“This isn’t exactly the most romantic Valentine’s Day meal,” Harry laughed as he blew his nose for what seemed the hundredth time.

“Please,” I scoffed in mock disdain. “It’s the ultimate test. Stay together through an entire bowl of pho, stay together through an entire lifetime.” 

Harry snorted, then had to blow his nose again. 

“What is that? Some ancient House of Malfoy proverb?”

He chuckled to himself again.

“Honestly, I can’t really picture Narcissa and your father sharing a bowl of this stuff.”

“See, and they’re no longer together, now, are they?” 

My mobile pinged then, cutting off Harry’s reply. 

Pierre-Yves had finished setting up the room, as well as had arranged for our complimentary usage of the hotel’s private pool and steam bath for later that afternoon, if we were so inclined. 

Harry and I didn’t even bother with the walk home, and seconds later, we found ourselves back in our room, and even I let a small gasp escape. 

Pierre-Yves was going to get a tip so bloody large, he’d never have to work again.

Except for whenever Harry and I returned to Paris, of course. 

A path of lavender and cream-coloured rose petals led to the bed — the lavender matching the dusky purple hue of the wallpaper perfectly — where crimson-coloured petals stood out where they were scattered against the crisp white linens on the bed. 

The lighting had been dimmed, and candles, battery-operated ones that looked beautifully real, lit the space, strategic little clusters gathered on the bedside and coffee tables to give the room an ethereal glow in the flickering light. 

A stunning bouquet stood in the centre of the coffee table, composed of sultry scarlet and lush violet roses, brilliant red tulips, and vibrantly purple orchids. 

I knew the red roses symbolised love and passion, whereas the lavender signified enchantment; the red tulips stood for true love — a flower only meant to be given to the love of your life — and the orchids.

Merlin, the orchids. 

Purple Mystique orchids, which conveyed admiration, reverence, and respect, coupled with the symbolism of an orchid overall, signalling both a rare and delicate beauty as well as a throwback to the Ancient Greek ideal of sensual masculinity. 

I couldn’t help pressing kisses behind Harry’s ear, along his neck, trailing along his collarbone as I explained it all to him, and he groaned when I finally kissed him on the mouth.

“How’d he know I think that about you?” he asked softly, licking into my mouth as his hands wrapped around my neck, pulling me towards the bed. 

“No,” I frowned at him. 

Or, at least, tried to, between kissing and stumbling towards the bed. 

“It’s how I feel about you.” 

Harry didn’t respond, just continued kissing and pulling me towards the bed, and I barely had the thought to clear away the petals covering the sheets before we tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and lips and hushed, almost incoherent, murmurings of adoration. 

“Why’d you clear the petals away?” Harry asked, much later, as we lay collapsed against each other, legs entwined, hands still trailing aimless paths along each other’s bodies. 

“Hmm?”

“The rose petals. You cleared them away before we got to the bed.”

“Oh. Yeah, well, they’d be a bit gross, wouldn’t they?” 

Harry shrugged and shook his head a bit, telling me he had no idea, so I rolled my eyes and Accio-ed a few of the petals that now littered the floor into my hand and smacked them firmly against the small of Harry’s back, pressing and rubbing them against his sweat-slicked skin.

He made a face and squirmed away from my hand as the petals stuck and clung and broke up against the dampened flesh.

“Eww.”

“Now imagine that on your entire body,” I advised, removing the offensive petals and flinging them off to the side. 

“They look damned good, though, don’t they?” I asked, grinning, and he nodded, curling himself around me, eyelids already drifting shut, and it wasn’t long before I felt my own eyelids fluttering shut as I pulled Harry even closer to me and fell asleep. 

***

_Sunday Afternoon and_ _Evening_

_14 February 2010_

_Harry’s POV_

I was awake… but refused to open my eyes and, instead, burrowed further into the cocoon of blanket and cloud-like mattress surrounding me. 

Still caught in those blissful moments between sleep and wake, it took me a few seconds to remember where I was, and suddenly, I sat upright, looking around urgently because Draco was no longer stretched out alongside me. 

I found him, easily enough, in the small jewel-box of a hotel room we were in, and indulged myself for a few moments watching him reclining on the sofa, wrapped in his black dressing gown, unabashedly admiring his physical perfection while I could. 

He really was bloody perfect, though, and I entertained a brief thought that perhaps, Narcissa, not having wanted to procreate with Lucius at all, had merely selected one of the flawless marble cherub sculptures from their garden and had turned it into a real boy, and that, maybe, Draco had just continued to grow, perfectly sculpted, from that point on. 

I allowed myself a brief internal giggle at the thought, although I suspected both Draco and Narcissa wouldn’t be horribly pleased with my insinuating that Draco was just a magical, marble Pinocchio, then returned to observing my very real, very human, whose-nose-definitely-did-not-grow-when-he-lied boyfriend. 

Draco was reading a newspaper and frowning, and I noticed several stacks of parchment and his work folders scattered around him and on the coffee table. 

Merlin, but the man loved his work. 

Ron and I had spent several evenings this past month either watching the telly, playing wizard chess, or doing whatever while Hermione and Draco sat pouring over stacks of parchment and typing furiously on their laptops, a silencing charm thrown up around them so we couldn’t hear whatever top-secret mission they were currently investigating.

_“Blimey, it’s hard to say who’s more of a fanatic, Malfoy or Mione,” Ron mused as his knight destroyed my king for the second time that evening._

_“Have you seen his notes?” I asked, clearing the board and setting it up for a third round. “They make Hermione’s look like a jumbled mess.”_

_Ron gave a frightened glance at the pair, still discussing a piece of parchment excitedly_ _, and_ _my mind had drifted to the few days Teddy and Andromeda had spent with us over the holidays._

_Draco had been teaching Teddy how to take proper notes for History of Magic, and I had laughed and teased, thinking surely it was all an elaborate joke to make Teddy bored as all hell in the class, trying to pay attention to Professor Bins, who was_ _, indeed,_ _still teaching._

_Draco had stared up at me, completely befuddled._

_“What about this is silly?” he’d asked, frowning down at the complicated-looking, colour-coded pages before him._

_“It looks like a bloody rainbow,” I’d informed him._

_“What’s wrong with that? Do you not like rainbows?” he’d asked, raising a brow pointedly, and I’d rolled my eyes._

_“I don’t know how you’d keep that method all filed away in your head,” I’d tried again, still staring at the page, the plain black ink interrupted by splashes of red, blue, purple, green, and more._

_“How do you remember what the colours mean?”_

_“What do you mean?” Draco still seemed confused._ _“_ _It’s obvious, isn’t it?_

_“Red for important people and quotations, orange for significant dates, yellow for notable events, green for related locations, blue for reasons and causes of said events, light blue for terms and definitions, and purple for related or cited works.”_

_As though that were the most natural note-taking method in the entire world._

_“How did you organise your notes for History of Magic?”_

_“I… wrote them down… the times I wasn’t sleeping, anyway.”_

_“How did you find anything in your notes? Supposing you needed to find the key figures responsible for the Goblin Rebellion and link how the location of those key figures who sparked those events at a certain time was one of the main reasons for the success of said rebellion, I mean… how did you find it in all of your notes, if you just wrote them down?”_

_“I… erm… I’d written them down, and that’s pretty much all I did.”_

_I’d felt not-so-bright at that moment._

_Teddy had been grinning back and forth between the two of us, his hair changing from brilliant blue to fiery orange to violent red, as though he were changing it to match his note-taking._

_“I want to take the N.E.W.T. in History of Magic,” he’d informed me._

_“So you should probably take advice from the person who got an O on his History of Magic N.E.W.T.”_

_“You took a N.E.W.T. for History of Magic?” I’d interrupted. “Why?”_

_“I took N.E.W.T.s in almost every subject,” Draco had replied. “Eighth year at Hogwarts was rather boring without a certain green-eyed ruffian to keep me occupied.”_

I shook my head and brought myself back to the present day, throwing off the duvet and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, hand reaching for Draco’s old emerald-green dressing gown to fly into my hand. 

“What are you reading?” I asked, tying the sash round my waist as I crossed the short distance between the bed and the sofa.

“Just the newspaper,” he replied, folding it up and setting it aside, then waving a hand to send all of his work papers neatly back into the closet. 

I sat down beside him and picked up the paper out of curiosity, staring at the photo of a woman taking up a large portion of the front page.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t understand a word of the bold headline to know that she was either dead or missing. 

“What happened to her?” I asked, jabbing at the photo.

“Nasty crime, that one there,” he answered, peeling back the foil from one of the several small bottles of champagne that Pierre-Yves had thoughtfully placed in a bucket of ice for us to enjoy. 

“She was found with her tongue cut out and both her hands chopped off.” 

I blanched and stared at Draco, eyes wide, then back at the photo of the woman. 

She was young, maybe in her late thirties, and had dark, expressive eyes, even in the black-and-white photo. 

“Why?”

“That’s the question, I suppose,” Draco replied with a shrug, handing me a glass of champagne then holding out a plate of macarons. 

“Try that one.” 

He pointed to a macaron that was half chocolate, half something orange, and I bit into it, the flavours of chocolate and passion fruit exploding in my mouth. 

“Wow.” 

It was all I could say as I lifted the delicate treat back to my mouth for another bite. 

“It’s like a pillow made of chocolate and passion fruit.” 

I wasn’t sure if that was an adequate description or not, but it was the best I was coming up with at the moment. 

“Jean-Paul Hévin makes the best macarons,” Draco agreed, selecting on that was chocolate and pink, and taking a bite. 

“We’ve three each, chocolate-passion fruit, chocolate-raspberry, and dark chocolate with…” Draco paused and frowned, taking a sip of his champagne. 

“Red and yellow fruit? I don’t know how you’d translate that to English… but… fruit.” 

He shrugged and I grinned as I stuffed the rest of the macaron into my mouth. 

“Are we going to watch the sunset along the river again?” 

I’ll admit I was a bit upset when Draco shook his head, because watching the sunset whilst sitting along the edge of the river, legs dangling off the side of the banks, had been one of my favourite experiences so far. 

Not that everything this weekend hadn’t, in some way, qualified as my favourite experience so far. 

“There’ll be champagne,” Draco was saying, a knowing little smile tugging at his lips as he gathered me into his arms, tilting my face up towards his for a kiss. 

“And there’ll be a sunset.” 

Another kiss. 

“Just not along the river.” 

“Where will we be, then?” 

“Just go get dressed and you’ll find out,” he promised, nudging me gently off his lap and shooing me towards the closet. 

I got dressed quickly, tugging on a pair of trousers, a button-down, and one of Draco’s cashmere sweaters that I shrunk down a bit to fit, wondering… hoping… if maybe we’d be going to the Eiffel Tower.

I’m sure it was silly, and ridiculously touristy for anyone who’d lived in Paris, but I was still in awe of the beautiful tower, all lit up with twinkling lights, from our dinner cruise a few nights earlier. 

I think Draco had enjoyed himself, but I got the feeling it wasn’t something he would have planned to do on his own. 

Thirty minutes later, Draco had Apparated us to a park, which looked nice enough, although I didn’t quite understand why Draco was so excited about having Apparated us here. 

“We’re watching the sunset from here?” I asked doubtfully, glancing around at the trees and buildings just visible beyond the thick tangle. 

“It’s a short walk,” he informed me, drawing me closer. “And I have half a mind to make you close your eyes for the reveal.” 

I giggled a bit, and Draco glanced down at me curiously. 

“I was just remembering the very first time we met up,” I explained. “And the second… you made me shut my eyes both times, and I remember wondering what the bloody hell I was thinking, trusting you with my eyes closed.

“I guess I’m just glad I decided to take that risk.”

Draco’s gaze softened, and he smiled his signature pleased little smile that I loved so much. 

“Me, too.”

He leaned down for what, I assumed, was meant to be a brief kiss, but turned into a snog session that was hardly appropriate in public, and I was secretly glad we were in the shadows of the trees surrounding us. 

“So… do you think I might convince you to close your eyes and trust me one more time?”

Draco’s eyes sparkled down at me and I knew I was smiling back and staring up at him like a love-sick teenager as I nodded eagerly. 

I shut my eyes obediently and allowed Draco to take my hand, leading me to our sunset-viewing spot for the evening. 

He let go of my hand, instructing me to keep my eyes closed, and it was all I could do to squinch them up tightly so as not to sneak a peek at what he was doing.

Finally, I felt Draco’s arms wrap around me from behind, and he instructed me to open my eyes, leaning down to nuzzle a particularly sensitive spot along the side of my neck as he did so. 

I opened them slowly, then gasped.

The picnic blanket Pierre-Yves had supplied to us was spread out, with a bottle of champagne, set in a large grass field with the Eiffel Tower towering in the background.

“I- Draco - I…” 

Eloquent, as always, Harry, I chided myself.

However, Draco was smiling that smile as he seated himself, tugging at my hand so that I joined him on the blanket, still staring up at the iconic tower as he uncorked the bottle of champagne. 

“We’ll have to be classy and drink from the bottle again,” he explained, holding the bottle out to me. “But that’s the way most choose to do it in this spot, anyway.” 

I glanced around and noticed several couples and groups of friends also gathered, sharing bottles of wine and champagne, some with plastic cups, others with just the bottle, like us. 

“Your mum would kill you,” I informed him, taking the proffered bottle and tilting it to my lips, allowing the light bubbles to wash down my throat.

“Then be a dear and don’t tell her, will you?” 

The bottle lasted us well past the glorious sunset, the Parisian sky painted a delicious palette of oranges, pinks, purples, and blues, and then the tower began sparkling again — something that happened at sundown every evening, apparently. 

“Do we need to queue up?” I asked. “When are we supposed to go up?” 

Draco glanced down at me, startled. 

“Erm…” 

“We’re going to the top, right?” 

“I thought we’d do that another time,” he explained, biting his lip as he looked down at me so that I knew he realised he’d thought that wrong. 

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he added, as though that would explain everything. “It’s going to be so crowded and positively unromantic up there, trust me.” 

I didn’t answer. 

Just stared at Draco, then up at the tower.

Then back at Draco. 

Then back at the tower.

I heard him sigh, then felt a tug at my hand.

“Come on, then,” he said, pulling me upright, slinging the blanket around his neck, and leading me back towards the darkened tree-dense park area, looking to any Muggles that might have noticed as though we were heading for a more intimate snog. 

Once in the safety of the shadows, Draco shrunk the blanket, shoving it in his pocket, then wrapped his arms around me, and next second, we were on the top deck of the Eiffel Tower, the rooftops of Paris fading in the last glimmer of sunlight as the city of lights lit up beneath us.

“Happy now, Potter?” Draco asked, pretending to be put off, and I couldn’t help but pull him down for a proper snog.

“Very,” I answered finally, releasing him as he turned to get in line for a few glasses of champagne at the tower’s champagne bar. 

Twenty minutes later, as Draco and I sipped our rosé champagne and I appreciated, for the second time in my life, how the tiny pearls of caviar burst in my mouth, I remembered Draco’s New Year’s Eve promise that this was going to be a damned good year.

I couldn’t help but agree that he’d been absolutely right. 

***

_Meanwhile, back in the UK:_   
  
_“Fall for someone  
with an air of mystery_   
_and wildness in their bones,_   
_but with the kindest eyes  
and a thousand beautiful stories  
woven into their soul.”  
\- Nikita Gill_

A couple raises a glass to each other, warm brown eyes sparkling up at excited blue, as they toast yet another Valentine’s — this time in a private vault at London’s Voltaire Champagne Bar — admittedly a bit amazed, but mostly not, that the spark is still strong on their thirteenth round celebrating this particular holiday. 

Several kilometres away, another man’s hazel eyes gaze up in awe as his gorgeous wife, clad in a sexy, yet elegant, silk nightgown, climbs atop the bed, hand reaching out to catch the phial of lube stolen from their friend just a few weeks prior — and is quite glad that they’d bargained with her parents to watch the children over the weekend.

Further north, in Scotland, a brunette with a pixie cut wraps her arms around her partner, kissing the top of her fiery ginger hair, as they snuggle down to watch “Fried Green Tomatoes,” drinking a bottle of champagne (so classy), balanced by a dinner of cheeseburgers and potato chips, as they always do on this holiday — thankful for a bit of familiarity during her first year living abroad.

Back in London, a dirty-blond's tired, dark-blue eyes brighten upon entering his Brixton flat at the end of a long shift to see a bottle of champagne and strawberries being held up, the love evident in his fiancé’s light brown eyes making him melt and completely forget how tired he is.

And, finally, a large owl flies off, having just delivered a very special package to a Kensington flat, and dark brown eyes smile as they flicker over the message accompanying the two roses and a small box containing what looks to be a slice of decadent chocolate cake topped with whipped cream.

_Casual and uncommitted as we may be, a woman as incredible as you_ _deserves_ _a bit of spoiling and appreciation on Valentine’s. Read them separately, not together._

She looks at the two roses — one a brilliant scarlet, the other purest white — knowing that, together, they symbolise unity.

A red rose, alone, symbolises passion and respect.

White, most knew, stands for innocence and purity, but, given that she is neither innocent nor pure, she has to assume the sender has meant the more obscure meanings of silence and secrecy.

Chocolate-coloured eyes slide shut as ruby-red lips close over the first bite of the cake — dense, rich chocolate, a hint of caramel, silky ganache, and airy whipped cream.

Casual and uncommitted as they may be, the gesture is romantic and sweet without being over-the-top or worrisome.

Perfectly played, she thinks with a smile as she finishes the cake.

She must be sure to thank him properly next time he stops by for a visit.


	5. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unsurprisingly, I couldn't fathom doing ANYTHING for the past few days, as many Americans couldn't.
> 
> But, magically, this morning, I was suddenly motivated and excited and finished this entire chapter?! 
> 
> Apparently having one's country moved back into the realm of "decent" is motivation to finish projects, lol. 
> 
> As always, hope you enjoy, and please comment!

_Friday Evening_

_19 February 2010_

_Ron’s POV_

“ _A smile starts on the lips, a grin spreads to the eyes, a chuckle comes from the belly; but a good laugh bursts forth from the soul, overflows, and bubbles all around.”_ — Carolyn Birmingham

“Do you think we should look for a new flat in Muggle London?” Hermione asked as we walked along the tree-lined Durham Terrace looking for Pansy’s flat.

We’d decided the small one-bedroom just off Diagon Alley that we’d called home for the past seven years was too small to start a family — which, despite Blaise’s joking warnings against — we’d decided to do this year.

And when I say small, I do mean small; we’d gladly given up a bit of interior space for the large garden out back where we could laze about during nice weather, Hermione always reading, and myself either reading (shut up, I do read, sometimes… you know, the regular amount, like normal people do.) 

Needless to say, wherever we ended up, we’d probably not be having such a lovely outdoor space in order to have enough room for the two of us, a newborn, and the third guest bedroom Hermione was insisting upon for when her parents would inevitably come to visit from Australia.

And, if I were being entirely honest, I was expecting an announcement from Hermione earlier, rather than later, in the year, thanks in no small part to that lube Blaise had “stolen” from Draco the last time we’d gathered. 

Not that I thought there was any sort of fertility-inducing properties in it, but it certainly increased one’s chances of conception due to, _ahem_ , frequency of baby-making activity. 

Really, though, if that was the sort of lube he and Harry kept on hand all the time, it was no wonder they always seemed on the brink of Disapparating home to take care of pent-up frustrations. 

I shook my head and brought myself back to Hermione’s question. 

“I mean, dad would be thrilled,” I replied, grinning at the thought of my father popping up every weekend to play with all the Muggle appliances our new home would surely have. 

“Then we’d have a guaranteed babysitter every weekend,” I added, wrapping my arm around Hermione’s shoulders and drawing her nearer so I could kiss the top of her head. 

“That, we would,” she agreed. 

“There is some irony, though,” she continued, staring at the terraced houses we were passing, looking for number seventeen. 

“That we’re the ones who live in Wizard London, while Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson all live in the Muggle world.” 

“Still, I don’t think we could afford to live here,” I replied, honestly.

True, we were doing nicely, financially, but there was “doing nicely,” and there was living in Kensington or Mayfair “doing nicely.” 

“I didn’t say I wanted to live here,” Hermione was saying defensively. “There are lots of other wonderful parts of London that are more affordable.” 

“Well, you know Muggle London better than I do. You tell me where you want to look and we’ll start from there.” 

Honestly, it didn’t matter to me where we lived. 

We could Apparate easily enough to anywhere we wanted to be, so all I cared about was that the neighbourhood was relatively safe. 

We arrived at number seventeen moments later, heading down the stairs to the entry of Pansy’s lower ground-floor flat.

“Hullo!” she greeted us, opening the door that led straight into her reception, where Ben and Malik already sat, waving happily at us from Pansy’s pair of dramatic, dark blue velvet sofas. 

Hermione and I perched on the dark blue ottoman opposite them, sipping the drinks Pansy had prepared for us, exchanging pleasantries and catching up with Ben and Malik while we munched on the platter of olives, cheese, charcuterie, and, my new personal favourite, ricotta-stuffed cherry peppers. 

When Ben had first appeared, brain-addled to think it was five years earlier, I hadn’t thought he would remain a permanent fixture in our lives, but, apparently — similarly to defeating a mountain troll — facing a love-sick lunatic on a rainy, windy moor made you fast friends. 

Micah and Ginny were next to arrive, followed by Blaise and Anaïs a few minutes later.

“How much do we want to bet that Draco and Harry are ‘ _tied up_ ’ with something ‘ _very important_ ’?” Blaise joked, making air quotations as we all sniggered. 

“Merlin, those boys are always tied up with something very important, from the sound of it,” Pansy drawled, rolling her eyes and flicking her wand so that more drinks zoomed out to Blaise and Anaïs, Pansy clearly knowing their “order” without having to ask. 

She flicked her wand again after asking Micah and Gin what they wanted, then glanced around the reception uncertainly. 

Ben and Malik were cuddled in the corner of one sofa, while Micah and Gin had taken up the other, leaving a space in the middle that Harry and Malfoy could easily snuggle into.

And, just beside Hermione and I, Anaïs had transfigured one of Pansy’s dining chairs into a comfortable double armchair for her and Blaise to share. 

“We could move out to the terrace, if you’d like,” Pansy offered. “It’s got a bit more seating so we don’t have to sit in each other’s lap.” 

“Nah, that’ll be freezing, this time of year, won’t it?” Ben asked, frowning and wrapping his arms around Malik as though already seeking more warmth. 

Hermione, Micah, and Ginny all chuckled knowingly, while Pansy, Blaise, Anaïs, and I looked at each other in confusion. 

“We’ll throw up a heating charm, naturally,” Pansy assured them, frowning and swishing her wand towards the kitchen which I saw led to a nicely sized outdoor patio. 

“A… what?”

This was becoming a theme, with Muggles becoming a large part of our group. 

One of us would mention something I thought was perfectly normal, like a simple heating charm, only to have the Muggles present frown and ask what in the world we were talking about. 

“Damn, that must be nice,” Malik mused with a grin once Pansy had explained the charm. 

“Yes, but the cooling charms at the height of a summer in the south of France are _much_ better,” Anaïs declared with a particularly emphatic swirl of her wineglass. 

“Cooling charms?” Ben perked up and looked quite excited here. “How do I get me one of those come summer?” 

“You two need to have one of those open relationship things and find yourselves a cute little wizard to love and make your lives more comfortable,” Micah replied with a smirk, and I couldn’t help but snigger a bit at that. 

“ _What_?!” 

Malik pretended to be put off at the suggestion, wrapping his arms more firmly around Ben. 

“Share this work of art with someone else? Never!”

“Can’t one of you, just, like, cast that warming spell on our teeny little balcony so we can enjoy it for the winter?” Ben asked, laughing as he nuzzled the top of Malik’s head affectionately. 

Good question, honestly.

A quick glance around told me all my other Wizard friends were wondering the same thing. 

“I’m not sure,” Hermione spoke up finally. “I’ve never left one up for longer than a few hours… how long do they last?” 

“Only one way to find out,” Blaise spoke up with a shrug. 

“You’d probably want Hermione or Draco to do it, though,” Pansy spoke up. “The two of them can cast charms like nobody’s business.” 

“And Mione’s always had a knack for conjuring warming spells,” I added, remembering the bright blue flames Hermione would conjure during our first year at Hogwarts to keep us warm. 

And, also, to set Snape’s robes on fire. 

“I’d be happy to cast a warming charm for you,” Hermione agreed, smiling happily at Ben and Malik. 

“It’d be interesting to see how long it lasts,” she continued excitedly. “Or to see if we can figure out a proper incantation to make it last longer!

“Oh! I was reading an excellent book on the alteration of certain charms just the other week! I’m sure we’ll find something there. 

I wonder if Draco might know anyth….”

“Bloody hell,” I groaned, only half-mocking. “Look what you’ve made her do! 

“Once Mione starts talking about her books and research….” 

Hermione swatted my arm and shot me a glare, which, at this point in our relationship, didn’t do a whole lot to keep me from pulling a face and rolling my eyes, because we both knew I was right. 

For once. 

Harry and Draco Apparated just then, apologising and explaining that they’d got tied up with something, which, naturally, made everyone present burst into laughter. 

“Of course,” Anaïs laughed, raising her wineglass and winking conspiratorially up at them.

“Something _very_ important.” 

“Yes.” 

Draco played along immediately, nodding seriously and pulling Harry into a protective embrace, caressing his hair and pressing gentle kisses along his hairline.

“Harry is _very_ important.” 

Malfoy smirked at us with a particular smirk that I knew (because I was learning Malfoy had a different smirk for nearly every occasion), meant that he and Harry had actually been held up for a legitimate, non-sexual reason.

Harry’s exaggerated, embarrassed eye roll and playful shove accentuated Draco’s smirk, and I couldn’t help but laugh aloud, as did several others. 

“Anyway,” Pansy interrupted. “What are you two, _very_ important, latecomers having to drink?” 

“Something with alcohol,” Harry replied. “I need it, after the training session I just had.” 

“What sort of alcohol are you hoping for, Potter?” Pansy demanded, swishing her wand again, sending a glass of whisky with a giant ice cube into Draco’s hand. 

“ _All_ of it,” Harry replied, flopping dramatically against Draco as he sat beside him. “I need it.” 

Seconds later, a tall glass floated its way towards Harry, who took it, albeit a tad apprehensively, and took a sip. 

“What’s this?” he asked, taking another, much larger sip. 

“Tea,” Pansy replied. “Iced tea.” 

Harry frowned and took another large slurp.

“Doesn’t taste like iced tea.”

“It’s from Long Island,” Pansy drawled, which, for some reason, made Micah, Gin, Draco, Ben, and Harry all burst out laughing. 

Apparently, a short explanation later, Long Island Iced Teas were highly alcoholic drinks popular in America. 

“Who is he?” Draco asked suddenly, eyes watching Pansy shrewdly over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of whisky. 

Pansy merely stared back, as though she, like the rest of us in the room, had no idea what Draco was talking about.

“Who gave you those lovely roses?” Draco clarified, swirling his glass, and I glanced around the room, looking for the obvious bouquet of a dozen roses that I’d somehow missed, and my gaze landed on the small wooden cupboard in the corner, holding Pansy’s telly and a small vase with just a pair of roses — one white, one red — set in the corner. 

Pansy sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Nobody.”

“Bollocks,” Draco challenged. “Then why is he agreeing to keep quiet?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at the flowers, then back at Pansy.

“I _know_ he didn’t mean those as a symbol of unity or some bullshit.” 

“I don’t see how what he meant is any of your business,” Pansy sniffed, and I admit I was fully engaged in the back-and-forth, wondering what Draco would say next. 

Slytherins… talking? 

Getting information? 

Interacting?

I had no idea what to call this… but Slytherins doing it was fascinating. 

“Darling, you keep saying that, yet you keep asking me for lube or leaving subtle hints like those flowers strewn about like I’m not supposed to get my interest piqued.” 

Yeah. 

I was definitely not a Slytherin. 

“Oi, Blaise!”

I was curious as to whether or not my partner had noticed these flowers of Pansy’s.

“Why aren’t you questioning Pansy’s Valentine, hmm?” 

Blaise turned his head to give Draco a frighteningly murderous stare, and I gulped, wondering if maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. 

“ _I_ was going to keep my mouth shut and see if she might let anything interesting slip.” 

“Let something slip?” 

Pansy threw her head back and let out a peal of laughter before staring back at Blaise in disbelief.

“Blaise, when have I _ever_ let anything interesting slip in front of _you_?” 

Unsurprisingly, Blaise rattled off a list of events and names that sounded vaguely familiar from our time at Hogwarts, and Pansy fixed him with a withering glance. 

“Do you have any examples _after_ Fourth year?” 

Blaise’s smirk deepened, and I knew that look as the one he gave right before he went for the bloody jugular. 

He counted off a few more things — names and details that meant absolute bollocks to me — then paused.

“… and… I know who _he_ is.” 

Blaise glanced off towards the roses in the corner, then back at Pansy, one brow raised as one corner of his mouth tugged upwards in a superior sort of grin. 

“Do you?” Pansy didn’t seem at all convinced or worried in the slightest. “Who, then?”

“I’m not saying anything… yet.”

Blaise smirked again.

“Not until I’m positive, anyway, but… he’s a Wizard, and he understands flowers.”

His gaze slid over to Draco, whose own eyes were narrowed in concentration, clearly turning every bit of information Blaise had just given him over in his head. 

“That ought to be enough for Draco to mull over for a bit.” 

Malik burst out laughing, which drew several curious gazes in his direction. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, almost immediately. 

“It’s just… the whole sneaky, cunning Slytherin bit is making a lot more sense now.” 

He grinned at Pansy, then Draco, then Blaise.

“You don’t do this with your mates?” Blaise asked, frowning and looking at each of us non-Slytherins expectantly. 

“What, do you just sit around and talk and… _tell_ each other things?” 

“ _Ah,_ _putain_ _…”_ Anaïs sighed, rubbing at her forehead and shaking her head in mock disbelief. “I ask myself who I am married to, sometimes?”

More laughter, then Pansy spoke up.

“I think it’s about time we ate, what do you all think?” 

She didn’t need any further encouragement, and we were soon seated out on her patio, warming charm in place, and tucking into a meal of an excellent pork rib, with the bones still in and sticking out, and sprinkled with pepper and salt so that the crackling was extra crispy.

I’d never seen pork cut like that before, and Anaïs explained that it was a French cut.

“Blimey,” I sighed, savouring another bite of the juicy, tender meat. “Mione, we might need to take another trip to France, soon.” 

The pork was rounded out by proper goose-fat roasted potatoes, crispy on the outside, and perfectly cooked on the inside, just like the pork.

And a gorgeous side salad with all the toppings, for those interested in rabbit food, that I politely declined. 

There was also a small roasted chicken, which, I realised, was probably included in case Malik considered pork haram. 

“I really appreciate the dietary inclusion,” Malik said with a grin.

“However, I’m no longer a practising Muslim, and will gladly partake of that excellent-looking pork roast!”

“It’s delicious,” Anaïs agreed, nodding seriously as she cut herself another bite and lifted it to her mouth. “You must share with me your recipe.”

Blaise, Draco, and Pansy all burst out laughing.

“Pansy doesn’t cook, _cherie_ ,” Blaise explained, leaning over to kiss his wife’s cheek affectionately. 

“Unfortunately, this is all provided by Waitrose,” Pansy agreed, nodding. “I live off of Waitrose and take-away.”

“Why would I cook, anyway?” she continued, glaring at Blaise and Draco, who were still sniggering around their mouthfuls. 

“When we all lived together, I had these two, who could already cook. 

“And now it’s just me… and, while I’m sure I could figure out _how_ to cook something like this, why would I? I’d be eating it for two weeks straight, just living here by myself!”

Dinner continued, and then it was time for dessert, and I vowed to make a trip to this Waitrose place just for this dessert alone.

It was a rich chocolate mousse-type cake with passion fruit set upon a base of hazelnut wafers and popping candy, the whole of it topped with elegant chocolate shavings and more popping candy.

It was bloody delicious, and I immediately thought of George.

He’d love it, but also, I imagined he could do some creative things with the popping candies and such he sold in his shop to make this Muggle cake into a spectacular wizard's confection. 

My musings were interrupted by another round of laughter, and I looked round to see Draco pulling an absolutely hideous face as he smacked Harry’s hand as it reached to steal a bite of his dessert. 

“Malfoy!” I gasped, laughing along with the rest of them. “That face! You’re going to get your face stuck if you’re not careful!”

“He’d probably be thrilled,” Pansy drawled. “Drakey loves pulling faces, so if his face got stuck in one, he’d be set for life, and not have to put in the effort.”

“I thought you just were entertaining Victoire and Dominique,” I said, taking a sip of wine, and remembering the ridiculous faces Draco had pulled all throughout Samhain weekend. 

“No,” Harry giggled. “He was just glad there were kids around so he could have an excuse.” 

Draco glared at Harry, then at Pansy, then glanced over at me and pulled another ridiculous face, and I couldn’t help laughing again.

“Merlin, Malfoy, if only I’d known you were such fun back at Hogwarts.” 

“Likewise,” he replied, taking a dainty bite of his meal, back to his proper, upper-class self, as though he’d never pulled a face in his entire proper life. 

It was really too bad none of us had been able to be friends back at Hogwarts, really, I mused, as the meal concluded and the conversation continued over spiked coffee and dainty macaron cookies that Harry and Draco had brought back from Paris. 

Our dessert was interrupted when Pansy’s playlist began playing Under Pressure and Draco and Blaise hopped up, excitedly reminiscing about something called karaoke, apparently some Muggle tradition of singing along with songs with the lyrics displayed on the telly. 

As the intro to the song played, Draco and Blaise swished their wands at each other so that they were properly clad as Bowie and Freddie Mercury, respectively, then the rest of us were treated to, what was, apparently, their signature karaoke performance.

And I’d be lying if I said that Malfoy and Blaise couldn’t have quit their day jobs and found a second career as entertainers. 

They were really putting on a show, strutting, and singing, and being silly, and just unrepentantly un-Slytherin like as possible, and I couldn’t help but think back to one of my favourite conversations with Fred. 

_“You like Hermione?” Fred asked, brown eyes sparkling and a genuine smile spreading across his face that let me know he wasn’t about to do something awful, like prank me and go running to tell everyone my secret._

_“Blimey, Ron, that’s great,” he told me, sitting down in the small back room at his and George’s new shop on Diagon Alley._

_“I mean…”_

_“What?”_

_“I don’t think she’d ever like me back.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“She thinks I’m just a mate. Like, comic relief._ _A good mate_ _to make her laugh, and that’s it.”_

 _I sighed and picked up one of the sugar plumes in the holder on Fred’s desk and stuck the tip_ _of it_ _in my mouth, thinking._

_“She’ll want to end up with someone smart. And focused. Motivated, like. You know?”_

_Fred just grinned back at me knowingly._

_“That’s all over-rated,” he assured me, twirling a sugar quill of his own between his fingers._

_“What you really want is someone who makes you laugh.”_

_I snorted._

_“What’s this?” Fred asked in mock surprise. “Ickle Ronnie-kins, doubting the loving advice of his older brother?”_

_“What do you know about love and romance, anyway?”_

_“_ _I know that people love to laugh._

_“That, underneath it all, all anyone wants is someone they can be their true selves with — that they can be silly with and let it all out.”_

_I lifted my gaze to stare at him uncertainly, and met Fred’s warm brown eyes staring back at me, absolutely serious, for one of the few times in his life._

_“Honestly,” he continued, knowing he had my full attention._ _“_ _We’re lucky. We get to choose the people we surround ourselves with, so be smart about it._

_“_ _Choose the one you can let your guard down around._

“Better yet, BE _the person others can let their guard down around._

_“_ _Find your person and, to be honest, your entire group of mates where you can be yourself — goofy, silly, scared, uncertain, giddy, and any other feeling you may have._

_“_ _You find those people, and you’re set for life, and life is too short to waste on people you can’t be your true self around — we’ve only got, what, a hundred-and-fifty years_ _or so_ _, tops?_

 _“Surround yourself with the people who make you comfortable enough to be silly and goofy. That’s the key to life_ _, in my opinion_ _.”_

I returned my attention back to Draco and Blaise, wrapping up their rendition of Under Pressure, and allowed myself a small smile.

I was thankful for that conversation with Fred — not only because I knew I’d finally found my group — but also because I now understood that, short as his life had been, he’d also managed to find his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, for those interested, and maybe still unaware, this story is available (with photos of Pansy's flat and Waitrose meal) on Wattpad!


	6. A Shit Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter in three sections:
> 
> First, Harry gives a press conference.
> 
> Second, Narcissa sends more Baby Draco memories to Harry.
> 
> Third, Blaise & Anaïs ponder Pansy's new beau.

**Harry Looks Like Shit**

_Tuesday Evening_

_09 March 2010_

_Blaise’s POV_

_“I have never thought about my sexuality being right or wrong. To me, it has always been a case of finding the right person._ ” — **_George_** ** _Michael_**

“Papa! Maman! Look! It’s Harry!”

Hugo had sprung up from where he and Manon had been colouring on the floor and was already running towards the telly, which showed Harry striding across a stage set up for a press conference for the Magpies.

He leant his head over to listen to whatever last-minute advice or warnings the Magpie’s Head Coach, Cormack McLeod, was offering him as he unfastened the button of his suit before taking a seat.

The emerald-green suit was, frankly, stunning, and I was sure Draco had selected it to match the exact colour of Harry’s eyes — and, yes, I was sure it had been Draco who’d dictated what Harry would be wearing today. 

A lifetime in the spotlight had made Harry seemingly oblivious to the nearly constant flashing of the cameras as reporters vied for the best photo of the evening, and I had to agree with Anaïs’ soft declaration that she would suffer a bloody stroke if she were staring out into a sea of flickering bulbs that made it look almost as though Harry were beneath a strobe light. 

“He’s going to talk about Quidditch!” 

Hugo was standing right in front of the screen, as though he might reach out and touch Harry and a quick glance at the banner displayed at the bottom of the screen told me that Harry would not be talking about Quidditch, but answering questions from the press regarding his sexuality and relationship with Draco — both of which had been a source of media frenzy the past few months.

I glanced uncertainly at Anaïs, who just shrugged.

Hugo was still blissfully innocent of all the silly, stupid injustices in the world, and a large part of me really wanted to protect him from them for as long as possible.

A smaller, more rational side of me, also knew that tearing Hugo away from the telly now that he’d caught sight of Harry Potter would be next to impossible.

Now that the initial star-struck fear Hugo had experienced upon first meeting Harry had vanished, Hugo was even _more_ obsessed with his favourite Quidditch player, taking his “job” as Harry’s personal French teacher very seriously.

“There have been many criticising your lifestyle choices, saying you are no longer a proper role model for wizard children.

“How do you respond to those accusations?”

A witch with deep plum-coloured robes was standing, watching Harry carefully, her notepad and quill standing at the ready to jot down his response.

“What’s a lifestyle choice?” 

Hugo was frowning at the telly, as though wondering what a lifestyle choice had to with Quidditch. 

“Something you decide about how you live your life, _mon_ _loulou_ ,” Anaïs replied. “How you show what is important to you.”

“Oh.”

Hugo’s attention was already back on Harry and his response, and I’m not sure he’d even processed his mum’s explanation.

“First, I’d like to point out, and make it very clear, that it’s _not_ a choice.

And, in my opinion, anyone who believes so strongly that it _is_ a choice must have made the _wrong_ choice, if you catch my meaning.”

Harry flashed an absolutely wicked smirk at the camera that could have only been learnt from Draco as scattered cheers and applause rose from the audience.

“Second, I’ve never asked to be a role model, nor have I ever presented myself as one, but as someone standing up for what I believe is right, despite public scrutiny and criticism, on the contrary, I think I’m quite a good role model.”

Merlin, but Harry eviscerating the media with his words and his eyes was an entire mood.

Another reporter was following up, asking Harry another stupid question regarding his sexuality.

“Papa, what’s sexuality?” 

“It’s… they’re talking about Harry’s relationship with Tonton Draco.”

“Why?” 

Hugo's eyes were still glued to the telly. 

“Well, because some people think boys should only love girls. Not other boys.” 

“Why?” 

Merlin, sometimes having a five-year-old was tedious. 

“Because it’s what they believe,” Anaïs supplied helpfully. “And, because your father and I don’t believe that way, it’s hard to understand, or explain, why someone else does.” 

She had a knack for explaining things in a way where Hugo wouldn’t respond with “Why?” or “How come?” 

“What if _I_ love boys when I grow up?” 

“Then you’ll love boys when you grow up,” I replied with a shrug. “And they’d better treat you nicely, the way you deserve.” 

Hugo tore his attention away from the television to beam a smile in my direction before returning to the screen where another reporter had taken over questioning Harry. 

“But given Mr Malfoy’s history, being an ex-Death Eater, surely you understand the concern and hesitation your fans might have?”

“What’s a Death Eater?”

Fuck.

“Erm…”

How did one explain this to a five-year-old?

“If I can get over his past, then surely they can, too,” Harry was replying, his tone indicating that the subject was closed. 

“Yeah, get over it, already,” Hugo was shouting at the telly and shaking a fist angrily, proving that my son was going to be one of _those_ Quidditch fans when he grew up, and I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to explain the sordid details of both his beloved Tonton Draco’s and his own father’s pasts quite yet.

I managed a small smile over at Anaïs as she took my hand in one of her own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. 

“There are rumours that Mr Malfoy has placed you under a spell using Dark Magic. What do you say to that?”

I couldn’t have even tried to hide the groan and roll of my eyes at that one, and Anaïs even threw her head back and laughed. 

“Tonton Draco doesn’t know Dark Magic!”

Hugo’s indignation and adorable five-year-old fury were bloody adorable, and I couldn’t help but grin at how he’d taken a step closer to the telly, scowling angrily, ready to defend his “uncle” to the death, from the looks of it.

Course, he was wrong.

Draco absolutely knew Dark Magic.

Just didn’t choose to use it, thankfully, for the rest of us.

Back on screen, Harry had merely raised an eyebrow, his look clearly saying, ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

He glanced over at Coach McLeod.

“I’m not even answering that one.” 

The Magpie’s head coach just nodded, as though he rather agreed with Harry’s stance.

“As a reporter representing the many fans who are _thrilled_ that you’ve found love and are happy, no matter with whom, I was wondering if there was something you could say to Draco now, if you might tell us what that would be?”

Finally, a fucking sane, unbigoted reporter.

Harry smiled one of his brilliant, genuine smiles and thought for a moment. 

“I suppose I’d have to thank him for helping me look like shit,” he replied finally as he gave a cheeky little wink and adjusted his tie. 

Then, he stood and strode from the stage, signalling the end of this particular conference. 

**A Cheesy Interlude**

_Tuesday Evening_

_09 March 2010_

_Harry’s POV_

_“_ _Life is great_ _. Cheese makes it better.”_ ― **Avery Aames, _The Long Quiche Goodbye_**

My mobile pinged, and I glanced down as I made my way to the Apparition point in the Magpie locker room following the fucking ridiculous press conference I’d just been forced to give. 

_Wonderful job, darling_

It was from Narcissa. 

_You handled those absurd questions thrown at you with grace and professionalism, which I understand is_ _not easy_ _to do._

I managed a smile, despite still being irritated, and quickly typed back a response of thanks.

_I’ve finally had a moment to locate some of those memories we’d talked about in my Pensieve._

Narcissa had been delighted to hear about our Valentine’s weekend — the Mum version, of course — and how I’d become a bit of a cheese enthusiast, in particular; she’d informed me that Draco, as a toddler, had gone through a phase where he would only eat cheese, rounded out with the occasional addition of charcuterie. 

Naturally, I had all but begged that the next photo or memory she sent me be of itty-bitty Toddler Draco enjoying his cheese.

 _I hope they provide you with_ _a_ _much-needed laugh_.

And I waited, staring at my mobile in anticipation for the first memory to come through. 

I couldn’t stop the giggle from escaping as soon as I opened the memory.

Picture, if you will, that nearly ubiquitous photo of every toddler with chocolate or candy smeared all around their face, staring up at their parents with that mixture of surprise, guilt, and oh-shit-how-do-I-get-out-of-this-mess. 

Except with cheese. 

Itty-bitty Toddler Draco with cheese smeared all over his itty-bitty toddler face, and I couldn’t explain why that was just a thousand-times cuter and so, inexplicably, Draco. 

“Draco, darling.”

It was Lucius who stepped forward, kneeling so that he was speaking with his son at eye-level, and Draco took a little gulp, and hastily wiped at his mouth with the back of his left hand, as though that might get rid of some of the evidence. 

“Have you got into the cheese course that was to be served at tonight’s soirée?” 

A brief pause, then Draco shook his head. 

“No?” 

Another pause as Draco’s eyes slid over to the elegant silver tray with the now-mangled wedges of cheese strewn about in a careless mess atop it. 

Then, another quick, slightly less sure shake of his head. 

“You haven't?” 

Lucius sounded amused, and I’ll admit, it was nearly as fascinating watching Lucius interact with someone without that disdainful sneer and an evil glint in his eye as it was to watch itty-bitty Draco. 

“Then what have you got all over your face?” 

He gave his son a bemused smile as he reached out to gently swipe at one of the larger smudges of cheese so that it fell from Draco’s face. 

Draco paused again, eyes darting left, little mouth pressing into a thin line before he stared back up at Lucius.

“ _C’est du fromage.”_

I knew enough French, at this point, to understand that Draco had just told his father that it was cheese, but in French, clearly having come to the conclusion that if he answered in French this was entirely different than admitting he’d been sneaking cheese in English. 

Lucius laughed at this.

A real, genuine, hearty, fucking belly laugh, head tossed back, a few strands of his (much-shorter) ponytail coming loose and framing his face, and I couldn’t help but shake my head at how bloody weird it was to see a version of Lucius Malfoy that wasn’t pure slimy evil. 

He responded to Draco in French, and a helpful little caption popped up at the bottom of my screen.

“So, if you answer in French, then you’ve evaded my question, hmm, my son? Clever.” 

Lucius seemed pleased with Draco’s reasoning, cunning enough for a three-year-old, I had to admit. 

“However, Draco, the question remains, what are Mummy and Daddy to serve to our guests this evening?” 

Draco glanced over at the mangled cheese platter once more, then back at his father, and gave a nonchalant, one-shouldered shrug. 

It was one of the things I loved about watching these memories of little Draco — so many of his mannerisms and expressions were already present — and watching them on the tiny version was adorable, even if their present-day manifestation ran the gamut from ordinary to positively sexy. 

“Something else,” he replied finally, clearly uninterested in this dinner party his Mummy and Daddy were throwing that evening, and the clip ended. 

_That was bloody adorable_ , I informed Narcissa. 

_Curious. What did you end up serving your guests?_

There was a pause, then:

_I honestly don’t even remember. I’m sure the_ _house-elves_ _were able to_ _make another cheese platter, just perhaps not as impressive._

A second memory arrived just then.

 _This next memory begins with quite a different mood, but I think you’ll laugh_ _in the end,_ _just as I did._

My screen now showed the austere formal Malfoy dining room, Lucius seated at the head of the table, with Narcissa to his right, and Draco, at about the same age as the last memory, to his left.

Draco was scowling, arms crossed, stormy eyes staring sullenly first at Narcissa, then at Lucius, and I honestly hadn’t known it was possible to glare so fiercely at such a young age until now. 

“Draco, darling, just take a bite,” Narcissa encouraged. 

“No.” 

“It’s pasta with tomato sauce,” Narcissa explained. “And cucumber slices on the side and banana for dessert. Those are your favourites.” 

Sure enough, the little three-sectioned toddler plate before Draco held all three of those items, each in their own section, but Draco just frowned down at it, then returned his gaze to his parents, this time his little lip jutting out and giving the slightest quiver. 

“I want _cheese_ ,” he ground out, tears already welling up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. 

“There’s cheese on top of your pasta, darling,” Lucius pointed out, reaching out with his fork to gesture at the generous grating of Parmesan atop Draco’s pasta. 

Draco fixed his father with an absolutely murderous look, as though he couldn’t believe his own father’s audacity to assume that’s what he’d meant by ‘I want cheese’.

His eyes then returned to his plate, staring so intently at the offending items there, that I was honestly surprised it hadn’t turned into a cheese platter, given what I knew wizard kids could do. 

“Draco, sweetheart,” Narcissa tried in that cajoling tone you’ve all heard any mother use at some point. “You’ve had very little to eat _besides_ cheese these past few days, and Mummy and Daddy want to be sure you’re healthy.

“You know Mummy and Daddy love you and want to make sure you’re getting all the nutrients you need to grow into a big, strong wizard when you grow up.” 

Draco’s icy gaze shifted to his Mum, clearly not amused with her explanation for the lack of cheese on his lunch plate. 

“Why do you want to make me sad?” 

Draco’s lower lip quivered quite convincingly as the tears welling up in his eyes threatened to spill over once more. 

“Draco! Mummy and Daddy most certainly do not want to make you sad!” Narcissa exclaimed just as Lucius frowned down at Draco and asked:

“Why would you think we’d want to make you sad?” 

Draco rubbed at his eye with a fist, and gave a little sniffle, but didn’t reply verbally. 

“Here, Draco, try a bite.”

Narcissa lifted a small forkful of pasta towards Draco’s mouth, but he clamped his mouth shut and shook his head, his breath coming more and more quickly in that manner toddlers have that alert their parents, and all surrounding adults, that a tantrum was imminent. 

“Please, Draco? Just take a bite. For Mummy. You’ll like it.” 

Draco did open his mouth, then.

Only it was to let out a wail the likes of which would have made a toddler Dudley jealous. 

“Draco,” Lucius warned once Draco had paused to take a shuddering gulp of air. 

“You shan’t throw tantrums while sitting at the formal dining table. That simply will not do.” 

Rather than obey, Draco merely let out another series of anguished sobs as he shoved his plate of food away from him, dramatically hiccoughing and gasping for more air as he continued to howl and blubber. 

Lucius and Narcissa glanced from their son, then at each other, clearly not strangers to Toddler Draco’s fits. 

“Very well,” Lucius sighed, snapping his fingers, and I gasped as Dobby appeared beside Lucius. 

It hurt, to be honest, although I knew Narcissa probably had no idea how deep my love for Dobby ran and certainly hadn't meant to cause any painful memories by providing the clip. 

“Dobby, take Draco to his rooms. He’s not able to join Mummy and Daddy for a proper lunch this afternoon.” 

“Yessir,” Dobby replied immediately, also snapping his fingers, and little Draco’s cries rose in pitch to an all-out scream as he was lifted from his chair, body flopping forward, legs kicking angrily, little fists beating down as though raining punishment upon an invisible floor beneath him as Dobby, Lucius, and Narcissa all heaved a great sigh, as though this were a fairly normal occurrence in the Malfoy household, and I sniggered a little.

Much as it pained me to reflect on this particular memory, Draco sobbing beneath the downpour of his rain forest showers when he’d thought I was under that idiot Williams’ spell, suddenly didn’t seem all _that_ dramatic. 

Dobby snapped his fingers again, and little Draco floated across the table, still kicking and screaming, towards the gigantic double doors, and out of sight. 

The clip paused.

Then, suddenly, Narcissa was in what I recognised to be Draco’s sitting room, an almost girlish giggle at her lips.

“I thought it best to come check on Draco,” she was telling the camera, as though sharing a secret. “Seeing as it was quite likely he’d screamed himself sick…

“However, it appears I needn’t have worried.” 

Narcissa gave an actual giggle, and the camera turned towards Draco, seated on the floor, surrounded by what had to be at least fifteen different types of cheeses. 

He was holding a half-moon of what appeared to be Camembert in both hands, and he’d just leant forward to take a bite from the middle and glanced up to smile happily at his mum. 

Draco set the Camembert carefully aside and reached for another hunk of cheese that I didn’t recognise, and took a nibble from it. 

“Neither,” Narcissa continued, turning the camera back towards herself, still on the verge of bursting into laughter. “Should we worry that our dear, young Draco might have any trouble with the Accio charm once he’s older.

“Draco, darling, tell Mummy again how you came across all of this cheese?”

Draco looked up from taking a bite of yet a third type of cheese.

“I wanted it. So it came.” 

“And, evidently, we’ll have to send Flavie and Loïc out to buy more cheese tomorrow, seeing as this is now Draco’s personal stash.”

And the scene ended with Narcissa, smirking like a knowing, proud Mummy ought to. 

_Tuesday Evening_

_09 March 2010_

_Blaise’s POV_

_“They shot shit for a good half-hour on either side of the matter.”_ _-_ **Iain McDowall _, A Study in Death_**

“So, who is Pansy’s friend?” Anaïs asked as we lounged on the sofa after the kids were put to bed. “I’m happy for her, but why all the secrecy?” 

“Ah, I don’t think it’s anything too serious, yet,” I assured her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and drawing her closer. “Just fun to tease Pans about.” 

“Yes, but who _is_ he? You said you know who he is.” 

“I have no idea, _Naïs_ ,” I laughed. “I just said I did to get her worried and give Draco a heart-attack.” 

“I still don’t understand you all,” she sighed, running a hand through my hair and shaking her head up at me, and I had the grace to look a bit abashed at that.

“It’s just… I mean…”

“Yeah, I get it,” she rolled her eyes. “It’s how you are.

“But Pansy’s boyfriend, he is Pureblood — old blood — no?” 

“It would appear so,” I agreed.

I was sure of it, to be honest.

Understanding the language of flowers was something our kind had passed on from generation to generation, stemming (haha) from when it had been important to communicate with one another amidst Muggles before the Statute of Secrecy was enacted.

Sure, many wizards, and even some Muggles, now considered themselves experts in the "language" of flowers, but not nearly to the same degree a pureblood witch or wizard would understand.

“Which, honestly, doesn’t tell us a whole lot," I continued with a shrug. "It could still be anyone.” 

“Still, I am happy for her,” Anaïs informed me, turning sideways and shifting so she could rest her head on my shoulder and curl her legs into my lap. 

“She works too hard. She needs someone to take her mind off her job.” 

“I doubt anyone could get Pansy’s mind off her job... especially now with the Williams case looming.”

True, Pansy wasn’t on the Wizengamot… yet. 

But she was high enough in the Wizarding Department of Law to be contributing heavily to the case. 

“But, I’m glad she has someone to relax with.” 

I smirked at my wife’s little euphemism. 

“Speaking of relaxing, I think Ben and Malik are getting more used to us wizard folk.” 

“I hope so,” Anaïs replied excitedly. “I’ve always loved Ben.” 

She gave a little gasp and blinked up at me worriedly.

“I mean,” she amended. “Not as Draco’s boyfriend, because Harry… he’s perfect for Draco, _non?”_

 _“_ I know what you meant, _tresora_ _,”_ I assured her with a grin.

She was right, though.

Harry and Draco were absolutely perfect together in a way I would have never imagined. 

“I don’t know Harry, other than what all the books say about him, of course, but he seems to thrive under Draco’s attention,” my wife continued. 

And, Anaïs, in her job as a textbook translator, would have read quite a few books mentioning both Draco and Harry. 

She smirked up at me.

“And, we both know that Draco loves to lavish his attention on someone…”

“That he does,” I nodded with a chuckle. “But _also_ , that Draco’s someone can’t be weak or _need_ his attention…”

“Yes,” Anaïs nodded.

There was a brief moment of silence as we pondered this. 

“So… when do you think the owl will arrive with the wedding invitation?” 

I laughed.

“Merlin, _Naïs_ , we'd probably be wise to start getting our dress robes fitted.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge note regarding Pansy's man/beau/friend/whatever-you-want-to-call-him.
> 
> After reading so many of your comments, I regret to inform you that I do not think he's who you suspect. 
> 
> I say this because, while I think it's fun, as an author, to keep your audience guessing, it should only be done within reason, and, if I've somehow led my audience horribly astray or (hopefully never) purposefully left out information that would lead my audience way off track, that's just not fun. For me, or for you.  
> I would take no thrill as an author for having a huge surprise reveal if I'd purposely led you off track, just as if you, as a reader, would probably feel no "OMG!" or "WOW" moment at the reveal if I had purposely led you down the wrong path. 
> 
> So... I've never revealed something so blatantly before, but, it's not Neville. I apologise to anyone who was strongly hoping for this, but, in my world he's happily married to Hannah Abbot and teaching Herbology at Hogwarts. I see where Herbology might equal knowing flowers, and, as a pureblood, he would know this... but. Anyway. Happy continued guessing, and I hope I haven't let anyone down too much. Fingers crossed!
> 
> Also, just a note regarding the Malfoy house-elves. I'm kind of going with Bessie is Narcissa's personal elf, kind of like a Lady's maid, and Dobby is Lucius', kind of like a valet (which makes me snigger and glad that Harry took his own personal valet away all those years ago!)   
> Loïc and Flavie I see as sort of the two main elves who run the rest of the household, like the Housekeeper and the Butler. I assume there are many more elves working behind the scenes....


	7. Heading Straight Down Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diagon Alley is always bustling with activity, but especially so today!
> 
> Follow Ron and Blaise as they track a suspicious target and view Diagon Alley through Dudley's eyes as Harry and Draco help them get Callum set up for his first year at Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long!
> 
> Excuse No. 1: I don't know why, but it seems to me any and all scenes involving Diagon Alley are ridiculously long? So I had to do the same?
> 
> Excuse No. 2: (Much more realistic) In addition to my full-time job, I've also taken on two part-time jobs, which I realise is, basically, 2 full-time jobs, and one of them is a start-up, which is like, 3 full-time jobs? 
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoy it. It does move a bit slowly, but it's got TONS of information that may be useful later :)

**_"_ A Friendly Stakeout" **

_Thursday Afternoon_

_08 April 2010_

_Ron’s POV_

_“Coming together is a beginning, staying together is progress, and working together is success.” **– Henry Ford**_

“Another?” I asked, lifting my empty pint towards Blaise.

“Sure,” he sighed. “Why not? Looks like we’ll be here for a while.”

We were at the Leaky Cauldron on a stakeout, tracking a wizard named Christian Spencer who was a suspect in a recent security breach at the Ministry. 

So far, there'd been absolutely no suspicious activity or anything odd about the man — he’d been playing cards with some mates in the tavern's corner for the past hour and, as he was on a winning streak, didn’t seem to have any inclination to quit soon. 

“Why’s this bloke a suspect again?” I grumbled, taking a sip of our fresh pints and staring morosely down at the table. “Why are we here, watching him play cards when we could be questioning people who might actually know something?”

I hated stakeouts.

They were so _boring._

Nevermind that I could sit at a pub and knock back pints with my mates for hours — but _needing_ to suddenly made me antsy and wanting to dive into the action part of my job. 

“He works in the Records Department,” Blaise replied. “Anyone who works in the department is being tracked.” 

“That’s just silly,” I snorted, taking another sip. “I mean, what a waste of Aurors!

“And that entire department has got to know they’re being tracked if it’s Auror policy to track everyone. Way to let the sus know they’re being foll…”

“Isn’t that your brother?” Blaise interrupted suddenly, straightening and peering into the entrance of the Leaky that led from Diagon Alley. 

“And Hagrid?”

Sure enough, Charlie and Hagrid _were_ making their way into the pub, greeting Tom the Barman with smiles as they sidled up to the bar. 

“Oi!” I called out, standing and waving them over. “Charlie! Hagrid!”

It wasn’t as though Blaise and I were completely undercover and couldn’t say hello. 

And besides, Charlie showing up in England was rare enough.

Diagon Alley, even rarer.

“What are you doing here? You never come to Diagon Alley,” I reminded my brother once greetings had been exchanged and the hulking pair had taken their seats opposite Blaise and I. 

“I know,” he replied, sipping his pint and grinning. “That’s why I stopped here first. Need a good pint to brace myself for the crowds.” 

I don’t think Charlie had always been so agoraphobic concerning the Alley, but nearly two decades working in the remote Romanian countryside had made him wary of gatherings of more than a few dozen people. 

“Charlie’s takin’ me to some Muggle event,” Hagrid informed Blaise and I, beaming happily. 

“It’s called a… er… wassit called again?” 

“A movie,” Charlie said with a firm nod. “Something like a wizard picture that Muggles love.”

“S’about dragons!” Hagrid continued excitedly, and Blaise and I immediately burst out laughing.

“Of _course_ it is!” I shot a knowing glance at Charlie, who shrugged and grinned sheepishly. 

“Everyone at the dragon sanctuary’s talking about it,” he defended himself, taking a swig of his pint. “Say it’s entertaining, and the Muggles even got some of the details right… it’s a story about some bloke who trains a dragon? 

“And… it’s a cartoon? Don’t know what that means either, but we’ll find out tomorrow, eh Hagrid?!” 

Now it was Blaise’s turn to laugh, and the three of us turned to look at him. 

“Oh! A cartoon!” 

He nodded, as though that explained everything. 

“It’s a Muggle film that’s made with drawings — like, a ton of them — and they’re all spliced together to look like it’s moving, like a photo. 

“They’re usually made for kids, but adults love them, too. Some of my favourite movies are cartoons.” 

“Oh.” Hagrid’s face fell slightly. “So… s’not a _real_ dragon?” 

Charlie also looked a tad less excited, but then he brightened and grinned over at Blaise. 

“Well, then you ought to come with, and bring your little ones,” he reasoned. 

He’d seen the adorable holiday card showing Hugo and Manon singing a snippet of an Italian Christmas carol at the top of their lungs — as children their age were wont to do — that the Zabinis had sent Hermione and I over the holidays. 

Blaise pondered this for a moment, then whipped out his mobile, thumbs typing out a speedy text.

“That would be brilliant, actually,” he agreed. “Anaïs and I have been trying to make sure Hugo understands the difference between movies and wizard photos so he doesn’t slip up at school.” 

He paused and glanced up at us, a very serious expression on his face.

“He starts Muggle primary in the fall. 

“He's starting a year late — he’ll be six — but Anaïs and I wanted to be sure he understands that he needs to keep his magic under wraps whilst he’s there.” 

“What about you, Ron?” Hagrid asked, looking at me and raising his mug. “Whaddoyou say? Fancy seein’ a cartoon with us all?”

“Sure,” I agreed almost immediately. “I know Hermione loved a bunch of these cartoon things when she was a kid.

“We pass by these posters of all these drawings of girls in flowy gowns and she just sighs and starts talking about some bloke named Disney.”

“Well, now, we’ve got to invite Harry, seeing as he’s gone and trained himself his own dragon,” Charlie reasoned, glancing over at me. 

“Text him, will you?” 

I began texting Harry, sniggering as I did so, and noticed that Blaise was also occupied with his mobile.

“Who are you texting?”

“Draco,” he replied, and I frowned.

“But you know I’m texting Harry, right?”

“And surely you know, by now, that Draco gets his own text, regardless.” 

“Right,” I agreed with a shake of my head.

I should have known Draco would absolutely insist on his own text. 

“That joke is never going to get old, by the way,” Blaise informed Charlie, setting his mobile aside. “Harry having tamed his persnickety dragon and all.” 

“I intend to tease them about it for the rest of my life,” Charlie assured him.

“See, Harry,” he continued, pretending to speak to our mate as though he were seated at the table with us. 

“I can’t decide if you and I are a lot alike, or complete opposites, seeing as I chose to tame dragons professionally and pursue Quidditch in my free time, whereas _you….”_

Charlie trailed off, shrugging and finishing the rest of his pint, while the rest of us roared with laughter. 

“I admit, though, I was a bit startled meself when I saw the article in the Prophet,” Hagrid admitted with a rueful shake of his head. 

“Thought maybe they was trying to start things up, yeh know? Seeing as they were such rivals back at Hogwarts.”

Hagrid shrugged. 

“But then, I said to meself, Hagrid, you ought ter be happy that Harry’s happy, and there yeh go. Glad they were able to get over their little schoolboy rivalry.

“Oi, that was no ' _little schoolboy’_ rivalry,” Charlie informed him, chuckling. 

“What would you know about that?” Blaise asked, and I admit I also glanced at Charlie curiously.

“I was there during the Tri-Wizard Tournament,” he reminded us. “A fourteen-year-old boy doesn’t stay up all night charming badges for a silly rivalry.

“Just a wee bit _too_ much hate, if you’d have asked me.”

The rest of us burst out laughing again, remembering the “Potter Stinks” badges Malfoy had created, and, even though it hadn’t dawned on me then, I realised that Charlie was right; the time it would have taken for Malfoy to have painstakingly made each of those badges was not the sort of time I would have spent on someone I hated. 

“Did he really have a crush on Harry all the way back then?” I asked Blaise curiously. 

“Merlin, yes,” he laughed. “It was all he could talk about… Potter this, Potter that.”

I frowned.

Come to think of it, Harry had always been unnaturally obsessed with Malfoy. 

“Honestly, Harry was always talking about Malfoy as well,” I confided. “I mean, I remember once Harry told us, all furious like, “Malfoy’s my _arch-nemesis_ ,’ and I was like ‘Okay, mate, I mean, Voldemort keeps trying to murder you, but sure… let's go with Malfoy’.

“In retrospect, I think that was a _very_ unaware, innocent Harry being _very_ attracted to a certain young blond.” 

“Merlin, I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” Blaise chuckled, dropping his head to rest in his hand. “But… and I’m serious… this _cannot_ leave this table.”

He lifted his head to stare each of us in the eye, as though to make his point.

“Draco would _murder_ me.”

“You have my word,” Charlie assured him. 

“My honour as your partner,” I agreed.

“Oh, sure. Cos, yeh know young Lord Malfoy and I Floo nearly every weekend to catch up,” Hagrid teased, lifting his giant mug to his lips.

“Alright, well, we used to change – well, not change, but – create a second password for the dorm,” Blaise began, shoulders already shaking with laughter. 

“And we’d make sure it had something to do with Potter.”

“What do you mean, make a second password?” Charlie asked.

“Oh, Draco was always too lazy to go to the house meetings when the new password was announced, so he’d expect us to tell him, and we’d just cast a second password that he’d have to use.” 

“Passwords like what?” I asked. “Give us an example!”

“Oh, I dunno. Things like _‘Blast Potter and his stupid bright green eyes,’ ‘_ or _I wish Potter would just blow me already,’_ or ‘ _My hair’s even shinier than the Snitch, so why hasn’t Potter caught me yet?’.”_

We were all laughing outright at this point, but Blaise continued.

“My personal favourite was when we made a rhyme just before the Christmas holiday,” Blaise had to pause again around another fit of laughter.

“ _Gryffindor Red and Slytherin Green_

_Set the most romantic scene_

_The serpent and the lion king_

_Pair to make the season sing.”_

I was nearly howling with laughter, as were Charlie and Hagrid, at the thought of a teenaged Malfoy having to utter any of these absurd phrases to enter his dormitory. 

“You smarmy bastards! I can’t believe you did that to your mate!” 

I smacked Blaise playfully on his shoulder.

“How’d you even create a second password, anyway?”

“I didn’t,” he shrugged. “Crabbe was scarily good at that sort of shit. Not as dumb as he looked, that one.” 

“No,” I agreed with a shiver, remembering Crabbe in the Room of Requirement, throwing Unforgivables and casting the Fiendfyre curse. 

“Whatever happened to Goyle?” I asked suddenly, realising that I’d never seen nor heard anything about Malfoy’s second brutish Hogwarts-era bodyguard since we’d left school. 

Blaise shrugged.

“He’s in hiding. Family threatened to give him a slow, painful death on account of letting Crabbe die and Draco get away, not to mention being rescued by you. 

“No one’s seen or heard from him since the war, and I suspect we won’t until his parents are dead.” 

There was a brief silence as Charlie, Hagrid, and I processed this, then my mobile pinged, and I jumped. 

“What time for the movie tomorrow?” I asked as texts began returning to my mobile. “And where?”

Hermione was already excited — both for the movie and to see Hagrid.

Charlie and Hagrid glanced at each other.

“Is there more than one theatre in Muggle London?” 

We all glanced at Blaise, who burst out laughing again.

“Merlin, you’re lucky we ran into each other,” he informed us. “There are probably over a thousand theatres in Muggle London.”

He was busily typing something into his mobile, then looked up at us suddenly and grinned.

“Everyman Hampstead. Seven-thirty.”

We continued to stare, blankly.

“That’s the theatre and the time.”

Blaise’s thumbs flew across his mobile once more and a text bearing an address and the name and time appeared next moment on my screen. 

“Why this one?” Charlie asked, curious. “Out of all the thousands in Muggle London?”

“Oh, it’s fantastic,” Blaise assured him. “They’ve got sofas and comfortable chairs instead of regular theatre seats… erm, kind of like what the Wizengamot sit it. Too close together and upright and uncomfortable. 

“And they’ve also got a great menu of burgers and drinks that you can order right to your seat, not to mention their ice cream sundaes! They’re served in jars, you know, to avoid spillage, and you get to add your own toppings, and they’re almost worth the bloody trip to the theatre on their own.”

“Harry says he and Draco are also in,” I informed them. “Reckon we ought to make them their own password to get into the theatre?”

The table erupted into laughter once more, then Blaise glanced at me knowingly. 

“You know what this means,” he said. 

“We’ll have to invite Gin and Micah, obviously,” I nodded. 

“And Pansy.”

“And Ben and Malik.” 

“Blimey,” Charlie sighed, staring at the two of us. “We’ll have to buy out the whole theatre at the rate you two are going.”

“Why not?” Blaise asked, shrugging. “Might be more fun, that way.” 

“Can yeh do that?” Hagrid asked. 

Charlie grinned suddenly and waved his wand. 

“What’s that?” Blaise asked, frowning, clearly not recognising the spell.

“It’s a massive sort of Obliviate,” Charlie explained with a smirk. “In my line of work, you need to Obliviate loads of people from remembering very specific events, from very long distances.

“Suffice it to say no one remembers their plans to see _How to Train Your Dragon_ tomorrow night at Everyman Hampstead… nor will anyone else decide they want to.” 

“Blaise,” I blurted, years of training ensuring that my eyes remained trained on Charlie’s face and not on our target, who had just stood from his table. “Spencer’s on the move.”

“Tracking spell activated,” Blaise replied with a nod. “Give him a minute or two to get a head start and we’ll be on our way.”

“That’ll be our cue as well,” Charlie said. “I’ve got to head to the apothecary to pick up a few things.”

“And you’ve got to catch me up on Norberta,” Hagrid reminded him as both men stood, and it dawned on me just how bloody tall Charlie was.

He was the tallest of all of us, and he easily came up to Hagrid’s shoulder, which, really, was saying something. 

“Happy tracking,” he wished Blaise and I, giving us a jaunty wave.

“And I’ll be expecting my usual hug goodbye,” Hagrid insisted, his eyes crinkling and sparkling behind the wild tangle of his moustache and hair. 

“Of course!” I laughed, standing then falling into Hagrid’s familiar, gigantic embrace. 

Even though I was now nearly twice as tall as I had been since the first time I’d hugged Hagrid — in the Great Hall after he’d been released from Azkaban and the whole Chamber of Secrets mess had been cleared up — I still felt dwarfed and child-like in his arms. 

“See you tomorrow, pipsqueak,” Charlie teased, ruffling my hair, and I did my best to glare up at him as he and Hagrid exited the Leaky. 

“I couldn’t imagine growing up with all those siblings,” Blaise mused, gulping down the last sip of his pint. “Especially one brave enough to work with dragons for a living.

“What was it like?” 

He glanced over at me curiously.

“Growing up with a brother like him?” 

“Charlie? He was alright,” I answered with a shrug.

“He was obsessed with magical creatures and tried to be nice to the garden gnomes… you know, kind of like a modern-day Scamander… hardly noticed anything that wasn’t an animal. 

“It was the twins and Bill you had to watch for, really. They’re the troublemakers.” 

Blaise glanced at his watch, then up at me, and I nodded.

It was time to get to work tracking Mr Spencer. 

As we exited the Leaky and headed down the alley, Blaise’s tracking charm telling us that our target was currently updating his quill and parchment supply at Scribbulus Writing Instruments just outside the entryway to the alley, we busied ourselves with peering at the variety of scales and telescoped in the display of Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment. 

“Blaise.” 

It was Theodore Knott, exiting the shop next door, Obscurus Books. 

“Theo, how are you?” 

Blaise seemed cool, almost indifferent to his old housemate, and I noticed that Theo gave me an almost snide once-over and pointedly did not say hello. 

“Excellent. Just picked up a few books. Time to turn a new leaf, if you will.”

“Never a bad time,” Blaise replied, almost immediately, and I, once again, was bloody glad I hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin where these sorts of rapid-fire, hidden-meaning conversations seemed to be commonplace.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you two,” Knott was saying, eyes glancing over me disdainfully once more before flicking back towards Blaise.

“You’re working, _clearly_.” 

It certainly didn’t take a Slytherin to have caught his implication, and I bristled.

Blaise merely shrugged.

“Might not be,” he replied, slinging an arm around my shoulders and angling his head towards me. “Did you want to take a look at the Menagerie? I keep threatening Anaïs to bring home a pet for the kids.” 

“Love to,” I replied immediately, eager to get away from that creeper Knott, who was now glaring at me as though I’d somehow poisoned his best mate. 

“He seems nice,” I commented as we turned and continued along the alley. 

“Yeah,” Blaise snorted. “Can you believe he and Pansy dated for a while?”

“No. Then again, I’m not sure what Pansy looks for in a bloke….” 

Blaise laughed.

“Thankfully, her tastes have changed quite a bit.” Blaise paused and bit his lip. “She took a little longer to come to her senses than Draco and I, you know.

“I think it was harder for her to stand up to her family, having three siblings and her parents threatening to take away her inheritance. 

“Thought she’d be left alone and penniless, with both sides hating her, what, after she all but tried to offer Harry up to Voldemort that one time.” 

“Maybe her little fling with Nott’s what our Pansy needed to come round,” I chuckled. 

“Maybe,” Blaise agreed as we paused in front of Sugar Plum’s Sweetshop, looking for all the world as though we were two mates staring at the array of treats available inside as our suspect exited Scribbulus and continued up the street and disappeared into Eeylop’s.

“Actually, he’s the sort that makes a bad name for our house. There’s nothing wrong with being ambitions, or cunning… or whatever the fuck else we’re known for.”

“I know. You’ve saved my arse quite a few times with all of those skills.” 

“My condolences… imagine, relying on the likes of Blaise to stay alive…”

I grinned as I turned towards the familiar drawl, already knowing who I’d be seeing standing behind me.

“Hi!” I exclaimed, gathering both my wife and Harry towards me for a hug while I pretended to glare at Draco, who was smirking at Blaise and I. 

“Ungrateful git.” 

Blaise was pretending to be offended, cuffing Malfoy alongside his head. 

“See if I ever help you with anything again.” 

“I’m sorry,” I apologised suddenly, noticing Harry’s cousin and his family standing off to the side, watching our exchange with interest.

“I’m Ron,” I added, releasing Harry and extending a hand to his cousin, but keeping my other arm wrapped around Hermione’s shoulders. 

“Nice to meet you,” Dudley replied, returning my smile as he shook my hand.

“Well, officially, anyway,” he added with a sheepish smile, referring to the few times we’d seen each other at the end of the school year when Harry’s so-called family had come to pick him up at King’s Cross. 

Dudley then turned towards Blaise, and introductions went round the group which was, curiously, missing any Hogwarts-aged person. 

“Callum’s with Teddy, getting fitted for his robes,” Hermione explained the absence of Dudley and Alice’s eldest son. 

“Awww,” Draco crooned, pulling Harry closer to him and pressing a kiss above his ear. “Maybe he’s in there, just like us, perched on one of those little stools, having his robes pinned up next to the future love of his life, only he has no idea….” 

Harry laughed and shoved at Draco playfully while the rest of us just stared at them blankly. 

“Did you and Harry meet at Madame Malkins?” Alice asked finally.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “Unfortunately.” 

“Because I was so utterly charming, poor Harry didn’t know how to react.” 

I gave a derisive snort, along with Hermione, Harry, and Blaise. 

“You know I love you, mate… but eleven-year-old you was anything _but_ charming,” Blaise laughed. 

Violet giggled as Draco rolled his eyes and shook his head down at her and Alfie as though negating Blaise’s comment and all of our grunts of disbelief.

“This lot have no idea what charming means,” he informed them. 

“What are you two up to?” Hermione was asking Blaise and I. “We were just about to see the menagerie — Dudley and Alice were thinking of getting a pet for Violet and Alfie to console them while Callum’s away at Hogwarts.”

She grinned up at me.

“I’ve been telling them a Kneazle’s the way to go.” 

“No!” I shouted, then took a second to compose myself. 

“Don’t. Whatever you do, do _not_ get a Kneazle. Those things are bloody insane!”

“I thought they were just like a cat…” 

Dudley looked confused and glanced uncertainly at Hermione, Harry, and Draco.

“Yeah, a bloody cat that attacks you!”

“Ron, you know damned well Crookshanks was only trying to get to Wormtail,” Hermione reminded me, rolling her eyes.

Of course, then we had to take a few minutes to explain who, and what, Wormtail was as we made our way towards the Menagerie, little Violet tucking her hand into my own. 

I followed along, glancing behind me to see if I ought to wait, but saw her parents smiling up at us as the group trailed along beside us. 

Once inside the menagerie, Violet led me immediately towards a cage of baby Nifflers, while the rest of the group broke up into smaller pairings and trios, each exploring the magical creatures they liked best. 

I knelt down so I was nearly eye-level with Violet and explained to her what Nifflers were, and why, as cuddly and cute as they seemed, they would not make the best pets, especially in the Muggle world. 

“Oh,” she agreed, nodding sagely. “I suppose they would be a problem, hmm?” 

“It’d be a bit difficult for your Mum and Dad to explain to the neighbours why their coins and pocket watches and such were at your house without telling them about the magical creature.” 

“Our neighbours wouldn’t even believe in magical creatures, I don’t think.” 

“Well, then you really ought not to get a Niffler,” I sniggered, and Violet grinned and giggled up at me, clearly imagining her Mum and Dad trying to explain the drawerful of shiny things that had mysteriously turned up in their home.

“However, my older brother, Bill, has several Nifflers. They come in handy for his job and he _has_ to have them.”

“Really?” Violet looked up at me, eyes wide. “He _has_ to have Nifflers? How lucky! What does he do? That’s what I’m going to be when I grow up.” 

I was explaining Bill’s job, surprised at how much Violet knew about mummies and Egypt, when I saw Violet staring at something just behind me to my left. 

I turned but saw nothing, not even a cage holding a mystical creature, and I turned hesitantly back towards Violet, dreading meeting her eyes.

She could see things, remember?

“Erm…” I began uncertainly. “Are you… alright?”

She looked back at me and smiled happily.

“Oh, yes! It’s the nice lady. And she says your daughters are going to love having you as their daddy.” 

“My… what?” I turned and glanced behind me, as though I might see this mysterious woman myself, which was silly, seeing as I’d never shown any sort of talent for having the sight. 

“I… I’m going to have daughters?” 

I couldn’t help tearing my eyes from Violet and seeking out Hermione across the shop, a stupid grin coming over my face, I’m sure. 

“Mm-hmm.” Violet nodded again, eyes riveted back on whatever it was she could see. “And they’re very pretty. And very smart.”

Excellent, so they’d be taking after their mum on all accounts, then. 

“What are their names? How old are they?” 

Violet frowned and looked back at me. 

“I don’t know.” 

“But… they’re with… the nice lady?” 

Violet nodded again. 

“And, so… there a mean lady, too?” 

“No.” Violet frowned.

“I mean, _she’s_ not mean. There’s one lady who comes and always has good news to tell me, and the other lady always has… not so good news.

“She’s the one who showed me Draco crying and told me to tell him that it wasn’t real.”

“That’s got to be quite the responsibility for someone your age.”

She nodded.

“It’s nice that I don’t have to be so quiet anymore. You know, now that my mum and dad know.”

“And I'll bet they’re glad you’re talking to them more, too,” I agreed with what I hoped was a sympathetic nod. 

A burst of laughter distracted us then, and we turned to see Teddy and Callum entering the store.

Teddy’s hair was a vibrant neon pink and Callum’s a contrasting electric purple, both of them having transfigured their noses into dog snouts, their tongues hanging out and panting, much to the delight of Alfie, Harry, and Draco, but, perhaps, to the chagrin of Hermione, Alice, and Dudley.

Blaise looked as though he weren’t sure which side to put himself on, and Violet and I quickly crossed the shop to join the group, laughing and clearly placing ourselves on the side of Alfie, Harry, and Draco. 

“Do you like my hair, mum?” Callum was asking, grinning up at Alice. “Even the best dye you’ve got in your shop won’t come out this nicely!”

“I do, darling, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask that you turn it back to a more… standard shade before we head back to Muggle London.”

Alice ran her hand through her son’s bright locks and ruffled his hair affectionately.

“I can’t have any of my clients seeing you, then asking for me to colour their hair, expecting these same results, can I?” 

“I taught him some tips so that he can control changing his looks a bit more,” Teddy assured them importantly. “And told him all about Hogwarts and not to worry that he’s from a Muggle family. 

“Loads of students are, and me growing up wizard doesn’t seem to have helped me much at all.” 

“It has nothing to do with anything,” Draco agreed. “The smartest witch during our time at Hogwarts was Muggle-born. 

“Top of our class and everything.” 

He flashed Hermione a quick grin, and Merlin, if my wife weren’t so damned cute when she got all timid and blushed a little. 

“With a certain blond nipping right at my heels, if I remember correctly,” she replied. 

“Don’t worry, Callum,” Harry said at the same time. “You can always owl Draco, Hermione, Ron, or me. We’ll be glad to help explain things if you need.”

“You?” Draco looked appalled, and everyone laughed. 

“What? Achieving seven O.W.L.S is nothing to laugh at!”

“Try nine N.E.W.T.S,” Hermione retorted with a little smirk, then, smiling over at Draco. “Or ten.” 

“TEN?!” 

I stared at Draco in shock. 

“Bloody hell, mate, are you insane?” 

Draco just shrugged nonchalantly.

“I, literally, had no life after the war,” he explained, as though that made achieving ten N.E.W.T.S. any less impressive. 

“What are owls and newts?” Dudley asked. “I mean, in terms of schooling?”

“They’re like O-levels and A-levels,” Hermione replied, and the Muggles present looked at both her and Draco with newfound respect. 

“Our boy’s on the move,” Blaise said suddenly, eyes darting to meet mine. “Headed down Knockturn Alley.” 

“Ooh… this could get interesting!” I exclaimed, hoping that our time wasted sitting in the pub earlier this afternoon might be rewarded. 

“We’d probably better put on our glamours,” Blaise agreed, taking me by the arm and dragging me into a small corner of the shop where I cast a quick anti-perception charm so the shopkeeper and other customers wouldn’t notice us. 

I stepped out of the little alcove seconds later as Ethan Trilby, a thirty-seven-year-old wizard with dark hair and equally dark, sharp eyes, who worked in the Apparition Test Centre. 

He was a dapper gent, always dressed impeccably, today in a dark grey chequered suit with a jaunty fedora perched atop his head. 

He was accompanied, as always, by his partner — a stunning witch with cocoa-coloured skin and a wide halo of dark-brown coils framing her face, the better to accentuate high cheekbones and a gorgeous smile that, oftentimes, gave way to a most contagious laugh. 

She was sporting a glittering gold top with a dark-green dragon-hide jacket and jeans. 

On her feet were scarily high heels that matched her jacket, which she, of course, strutted about in as though they were everyday trainers. 

Draco responded first, throwing his head back to let out a huge guffaw.

“You two are hysterical,” Harry informed us, as “Ethan” slung an arm around “Natalie” and smirked at the small crowd staring up at them. 

“Is that _really_ you?” Alfie asked, moving to stand right in front of Blaise and me, staring up at us curiously. 

“That’s crazy,” Dudley was saying, staring in awe at Blaise and I, then at Alice. 

“I wish we could do that… not even for any reason, just for fun,” Alice agreed.

“Erm… you know this is just for work, right?” I broke character for a second, glancing at Hermione nervously, as “Natalie” leaned closer into my side, fixing my wife with a challenging stare.

Hermione looked as though she were trying not to laugh.

“I’m not even slightly worried,” she assured us with a bemused shake of her head. “Gorgeous as your partner is…

“And how are you even walking in those right now?” 

“There’s a charm for that, didn’t you know?” Natalie winked and flashed a smile at my wife before leaning over to whisper the charm into Hermione’s ear.

“Have fun with that one, Luv!” she called out, tucking her arm through mine and leading us out into the street and down Knockturn Alley.

No matter how many times we visited this place, I still got the chills. 

Blaise and I made our way to the end of the alley, talking animatedly about the upcoming New Moon on the fourteenth — and how only Knockturn Alley had the potent, sometimes questionable, candles Natalie needed for her spellwork that evening. 

Christian Spencer was also in the candle shop, speaking in hushed tones with the shopkeeper, and "Natalie” and I surreptitiously began looking at the ritual candles lining the wall just opposite Spencer and the shopkeeper. 

“And you’re sure it’ll get the job done?” he was asking.

“Most definitely.” 

The shopkeeper sounded downright insulted that Spencer might have doubted their products. 

“Natalie” plucked a candle from one shelf and twirled to face me so that I could watch Spencer while I pretended to pay attention to whatever nonsense "Natalie” was spinning about needing to purify herself and begin anew. 

I smiled and nodded at the appropriate moments while Spencer shook out a few Galleons. 

“I just need to get a handle on this chizpurfle infestation,” he sighed with a shake of his head, and I very nearly groaned out loud. 

Chizpurfles?

The idiot bloke was skulking around Knockturn Alley to deal with _chizpurfles_? 

Natalie’s eyes met my own and I could tell she was trying hard not to roll them back into her skull. 

“Let’s get this and be on our way,” she suggested, turning towards the shopkeeper as Spencer made his way out of the store. 

“I can’t fucking believe it,” I growled several minutes later as we exited the small, sinister alleyway and returned to Diagon Alley. 

“An entire bloody day wasted, tailing some idiot who thinks he has to resort to questionable magic to get rid of a simple Chizpurfle infestation.” 

Blaise was chuckling as he pulled us into a little alcove, and we switched out of our glamours. 

“Don’t worry about it, mate. It wasn’t a complete waste.”

Bloody hell, had Blaise gone mad?

“We got to meet Harry’s wizard niece and nephews, and show them some neat magic.” 

I paused and reflected briefly on the conversation Violet and I had had at the menagerie.

I was going to be a father.

Of more than one amazing daughter, apparently. 

I couldn’t help but sling my arm around my partner’s shoulders as we ambled up the street, thinking that our “forced” day on Diagon Alley couldn’t have been more perfect.

“You’re right.” I agreed, grinning. “Totally worth it.”

“I think I see Draco and Harry in your brother’s shop. Want to stop by?” 

Blaise nodded towards the window where Draco’s unmistakable hair shone as he leant over the counter, deep in conversation with George. 

Seconds later, Blaise and I were greeted with the excited rush of Violet and Alfie running up to us.

“Look! George gave us these!”

Violet held up a tin of Wakefield’s Off-the-Record Glow-in-the-Dark Gum, and I couldn’t help but grin. 

“He did not!” I did my best to look upset. “He never gives _me_ anything, and I’m his brother!”

“Well, that’s why!” Violet giggled, playfully grabbing at Alife’s tin. “I never give Alfie _anything_!”

“It’s true!” Alfie declared, stomping his foot angrily as he jerked his tin of gum out of Violet’s grasp. 

“Oi, Ronnie-kins,” George shouted from the other end of the shop where he was now showing some of his joke products off to Callum and Teddy. 

“I’ve already told you, I’ll give you anything in the shop you want, only it’ll cost you ten Galleons a piece.” 

“George! How are you?” Blaise called out, striding across the store and clapping my brother on the back. “Got any good bets running at the moment?” 

This earned him a wicked glare from Harry and a half-hearted shove from Draco. 

“Must say, I’m quite looking forward to the next round with these two,” Blaise continued, completely ignoring them. 

“Well, they’ve both got very significant birthdays coming up this summer,” George reasoned, also ignoring Harry and Draco, who had switched their glares over to him. 

I was vaguely aware of Hermione explaining our New Year’s Eve shenanigans to Alice and Dudley, which left them both in stitches.

I, however, was more focused on the conversation unfolding between Blaise, Draco, Harry, and George. 

“I’d love to arrange another bet,” George was saying, pulling out a piece of parchment.

“You know, to properly celebrate the two of you making the big three-oh.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Harry warned, pretending to snatch the parchment from George.

“Really, Harry, you know snatching at this silly piece of parchment isn’t going to stop the lot of us from taking more bets on the two of you being predictably adorable.” 

“What are you up to tomorrow night?” Blaise asked suddenly. 

“Could you get together a small bet for then? We’re all going to see a Muggle movie. You should come, too.” 

“Tomorrow night?” George frowned. “Sorry, mate, I can’t. I’ve already got plans.” 

“Well, bring her along, too, why don’t you?” 

George burst out laughing, then grinned at Blaise.

“Merlin, not you, too! I’ve had this one here asking me silly questions about bloody flowers all afternoon.” 

George jerked a thumb in Draco’s direction. 

“Just wanted to know if you knew of a good florist on the alley who could put together a proper arrangement for Harry,” Draco defended himself. 

“Well, like I told you, it’s been a while since I sent anyone flowers.”

“Define ‘a while’,” Blaise countered, resting an elbow on the shop counter and resting his chin in his palm, and I started to get an inkling as to what the Slytherin pair were up to. 

Then made a face, remembering Pansy telling me far too much about her New Year’s Eve kiss with my brother. 

“ _Years_ ,” George confirmed with another laugh, and my own eyes narrowed.

“Careful,” I warned. “George ought to have been sorted into Slytherin himself. 

“He says years, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t had flowers sent by someone else or something other than owl post.”

George laughed again.

“Ronnie-kins learnt that the hard way, growing up with me. There’s always a loophole, if you need it, right, boys?” 

He winked at Draco and Blaise and was about to continue when I felt the familiar burst of magic from my wand, alerting me to a crime nearby.

“We’ve got to run”, Blaise was already explaining our quick departure as we walked briskly out of the store. “A crime’s just been reported near Gringotts.” 

There were already two other Aurors at the scene, gently urging the swarm of curious witches and wizards back, sealing off the crime scene with a barricade spell that would allow us to do our work without interference.

About halfway up the steps leading to Gringotts, a man was floundering, seeming as though he were trying to crawl up the steps, anguished, hysterical cries tearing from his throat.

I quickly ran to his side, Blaise at my heels, and bent down to offer the injured wizard my hand, then gasped as he tilted his head up to look at me, a look of panic written all over his face. 

His arms reached up towards me, seeking help — but only the stumps of his wrists remained, the hands themselves having been cleanly severed, the wounds already cauterised and healed, although the scars still looked fresh. 

He opened his mouth, and again, only frantic, guttural babbling came out, and I saw that his tongue had also been removed. 

It was only my years of experience that kept me from blanching as I grasped the man by his wrists and hoisted him upright, reaching round to run a comforting hand along his back.

“It’s alright,” I heard myself telling him, even though I knew damn well that it was not alright. “We’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.” 

“Someone’s erased his memory, as well,” Blaise informed me. “We won’t be able to see who did this. 

“Or why.” 

The man was still groaning and sobbing, clearly terrified, and I allowed him to fall against me, clutching him to my side in a sort of awkward embrace, understanding that, for now, all I could do for him was offer him this least bit of comfort. 

I glanced at Blaise uncertainly, not sure what we should do next when a flash of light appeared and one of the ministry’s top-level secret agents appeared, his face obscured by the blinding light used to deter anyone from trying to sneak a glimpse at figuring out their identity, nevermind that he would obviously have a glamour in place. 

There was something oddly familiar about him, but I couldn’t quite place it, and I figured he was probably the same secret agent who always showed up when they were needed — kind of like Blaise’s and my guardian angel. 

The man gently took the shaking man from my arms, his trembling already fading as the agent placed a powerful calming spell on him.

“You may leave now,” he said, in that eerie, distorted voice they all had. “This is no longer in the Auror’s jurisdiction.” 

**"Through the Brick Wall"**

_Thursday Afternoon_

_08 April 2010_

_Dudley’s POV_

_“Life is perpetual freshness, in permanent movement ,  
As such, we need to be the same way;  
A childlike innocence is requested by Existence,  
Every time, in every circumstance – a priceless purity.”_

_  
**―** _ **Ilie Cioara** _**, Life Is Eternal Newness** _

“Where are they?” Violet asked, for about the fifteenth time, as we exited the Charing Cross tube and began walking down the small street leading to St Martin’s-in-the-Fields, where Harry and Draco had said they’d meet us this afternoon. 

“We’re not at the meeting spot yet, sweetheart,” I replied, reaching down to take her hand in mine, reminding myself to be patient with her.

The kids were all so excited at the prospect of seeing their wizard uncle and Draco again, not to mention finally getting a glimpse of the magical world they would, inevitably, all become a part of. 

“Well, do you think they’re there already? Maybe they’re waiting for us! Hurry!”

I took a second, again, to remind myself of how atrociously awful _I_ would’ve been at any of my children’s ages, and how damned lucky I was for my three, sweet-tempered, brilliant, if somewhat overly enthusiastic children, then smiled down at my daughter as she tugged at my hand, trying to run and pull me along after her. 

“Violet, darling, there’s no need to rush. We’ll be there in less than two minutes, and if your Uncle and his boyfriend are already there, they’ll still be there in two minutes. 

“It’s not nice to jostle the other people walking by for no reason.” 

Violet stopped trying to run and turned her little face up to me to smile sheepishly. 

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m just so _excited_! The lady told me we’re going to have an excellent day!”

My smile faltered a bit, but I managed to overcome the wave of uncertainty that washed over me every time Violet mentioned these strange ladies who sometimes appeared, telling her things that were likely to happen in the future.

Alice and I had always thought Violet to be a very quiet child who kept to herself.

How very wrong we’d been.

As it turned out, she’d been quiet mostly on account of these visions, knowing instinctively that she was different and that she ought not to go blabbing to adults that she could see things that others couldn’t. 

While Alice and I were thrilled she now knew we loved her, no matter what, and that she could share with us all the things she was experiencing, magical or not, it still sent a chill down my spine that my baby girl could see these things.

And not in a bad, my-parents-were-awful-and-made-me-hate-magic sort of way, mind. 

Just in a terrified, what-if-something-happens-and-I-can’t-protect-my-daughter sort of way.

“I can’t wait to meet that Teddy bloke,” Callum was saying. “Uncle Harry said he’s just like me!”

I hoped it would be comforting for my children to make some friends of their own kind.

Not that they had any difficulties socialising, but it had to be bloody thrilling for them to meet some people they could let their guard down around. 

I caught Alice’s eye as Callum continued to talk excitedly about meeting Teddy, Draco’s nephew and Harry’s godson. 

She returned my gaze with a knowing smile, little Alfie straddling her hip, as we arrived at our destination in front of the church.

Much to Violet’s dismay, Harry and Draco were nowhere to be seen. 

“They’ll be here soon,” Alice assured her, already seeing Violet’s dejected frown. 

The kids began their own little game – something involving running up and down the steps of the church, some sort of intricate foot pattern needing to be executed so as not be tagged “out,” and Alice and I stood, watching the passersby, looking for the unmistakable silvery flash of Draco’s hair in the crowd. 

“Quite the little game they’ve got going there,” Harry said suddenly from behind me, and I whirled around to see him and Draco grinning at me. 

“It’s like you appeared out of nowhere,” I gasped, and Harry smirked.

“We did.”

“Sorry we’re a bit late,” he continued, turning his head to give Draco a pointed stare. “ _Someone_ had to make sure his hair was perfect.” 

“Some of us care how we appear in public,” Draco sniffed, adjusting his suit sleeves, and I couldn’t help but notice that his hair was impeccably coiffed. 

“I’m married to a hairdresser,” I confided, winking at Harry conspiratorially. “I know _exactly_ how you feel.” 

This earned me a teasing smack from Alice but was completely worth it for the belly laugh Harry gave, head tossed back, leaning against Draco for support. 

“Uncle Harry!” 

Callum was the first to notice the two men and came running over, Violet and Alfie following as quickly as their legs would allow. 

“Where’s Teddy?” 

“Oh, he’ll meet us at Diagon Alley,” Harry assured him, hugging each of the children in turn. 

“He doesn’t know how to Apparate yet, and side-alongs make him dizzy.” 

Harry seemed to notice our puzzled expressions.

“Erm… you know, he can’t just appear somewhere like we adult wizards can. 

“And while Draco or I could have brought him alongside one of us, they can make you feel sick, so Teddy reckoned he’d wait to meet you at Diagon Alley, which is just a bit further that way.”

Harry pointed up Charing Cross Road, and Violet and Callum immediately took hold of each of Harry’s hands, while Alfie reached up for Draco to swing him up onto his hip and we were on our way. 

Draco had his head tilted towards Alfie, and I realised, watching their subtle gestures and facial expressions, that they were having a conversation, and I couldn’t help but be awed again at how magical my children were. 

I was still watching Draco and Alfie, vaguely aware of Miss Chatterbox Violet and a very enthusiastic Callum on either side of Harry, each talking far too quickly for him to have been catching everything they were saying.

Suddenly, Harry and Draco stopped, Alice and I nearly bumping into them. 

“Oh! We’re here!” Violet said, staring up in awe.

Callum and Alfie were also staring at what, far as I could tell, was a decrepit old shop with signs plastered in the window announcing a “new retailer coming soon,” although, based on the state of disrepair the shop was in, I could only assume that “soon” was a euphemism for “hopefully, someday….” 

“We’re… where?” Alice seemed just as confused as I was. 

“Can’t you see it?” Callum asked, glancing up at me and Alice curiously. 

“I see a very old shop in a state of disrepair,” Alice replied, glancing at me, and I nodded my agreement.

“Muggles can’t see the entrance,” Draco explained with a wink. “Can’t have them being curious and stumbling upon this by accident.”

And with that, he reached out and pulled the door open, and Alice and I both gasped. 

There was a pub in there.

And a very full, lively one, at that!

I followed Harry, Draco, and the children in, and gulped a little at the immediate hush that fell across the pub. 

It was now so silent, you could’ve heard the slightest rustle.

“Should have expected this, to be honest,” Draco was saying, glancing down at Harry, bending his head down to kiss his cheek. 

Harry only raised his eyebrows in agreement as we all continued to stare back at all the eyes in the pub trained on us.

Then, suddenly, it was pandemonium. 

“Mr Potter! May I take a photo?” 

“It’s Harry Potter! And, look! He’s with the Malfoy heir.” 

“Pity, used to seem like such a nice boy, only to learn he’s bent.” 

“Mr Potter, a photo for us as well?”

“Harry! Excellent match last weekend!”

“The nerve of them, showing up here. _Together_. Flaunting their sinful ways, if you ask me.”

“Can you sign my poster, Harry?”

“You just know Malfoy’s got him under a spell. Only _Dark_ Magic, that one there knows.” 

And more and more of the like, and I couldn’t help but glance down at Alice again.

Sure, Harry had said he was a professional something-player and had likened it to football, but I had sort of forgotten, and certainly hadn’t been expecting _this_. 

And, I don’t know why, but I supposed I’d just been expecting the Wizarding world to be light years ahead of us in all things and was surprised to hear that many of them, apparently, didn’t approve of non-hetero lifestyles. 

“Come here, over this way,” a firm voice called out, and I turned to see the barman, a friendly smile spreading across his wrinkled face, beckoning us towards the bar.

Draco handed Alfie back over to me with an apologetic smile, and we made our way towards the smiling barman. 

“They might be there for a while,” he said with a wink. “Always happens a bit when Harry walks into this place, but now that he’s here with Lord Malfoy, well… you might as well have a seat and have a drink.”

He turned his friendly gaze towards the children, and his smile grew even wider.

“What’ll it be for you, then? Would you like some water, or maybe a glass of squash, if mum and dad say it’s alright?”

Alice and I nodded mutely, and I slid Alfie from my arms onto a barstool with high back as the fans in the pub continued to bombard both Harry and Draco, snapping photos, shaking their hands, and asking for autographs. 

Draco’s arm, I noted, was wrapped firmly around Harry’s waist, as though ready to whisk him away should the crowd become too much, and I turned my attention back towards the barman.

“Name’s Tom,” he was saying, sliding three glasses of strawberry squash across the bar. 

“And what would you two like? Something a tad stronger than squash, I’d wager?” 

Alice ordered her customary glass of red wine, and I took a whiskey neat. 

Then we sat at the bar, waiting and watching, as the crowd in the bar continued to swarm around Harry and Draco.

“Why are they all surrounding them like that?” Callum asked.

“Your uncle plays some sort of wizard sport professionally,” I explained. “I don’t remember much more than that, but he said it would be the equivalent of him being a professional footie player.” 

“They have wizard footie?!” 

Callum looked back towards his uncle in awe. 

“Well, he said it’s very different from football, as it’s played on broomstick, but, you know. The fans and being famous and such would be the same.”

“Not to mention he defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named when he was only seventeen,” another witch seated next to us chimed in. “And that, after he made him lose all his power as a wee babe.” 

Oh. 

Right.

That. 

The lady smiled at us.

“He’s your uncle, is he?” 

Alfie was staring up at her distrustfully over his glass of squash, and Callum opened his mouth to reply, when Violet spoke up first.

“We’re shy,” she informed the woman, not sounding very shy at all. 

“Oh, bless your sweet little heart,” the woman replied, not seeming to have caught Violet’s slight. 

“And, are these your parents?” 

She lifted her gaze towards Alice and me.

“First trip to Diagon Alley, I take it?”

She smiled at us, although I’d seen my mum smile this sort of smile often enough to know it wasn’t a real one. 

“You must be sending your eldest off to Hogwarts.” 

Callum, usually enthusiastic and friendly, seemed to have adopted his younger siblings’ hesitation, but gave a tiny nod.

“Well, enjoy yourselves. It wasn’t so long ago they might not have let you sort wander the alley. I’m sure you’re in for a treat.”

She gave a parting smile, then turned and made her way back across the pub. 

“She doesn’t like you and daddy,” Alfie sniffled, placing his glass carefully back on the bar and looking up at Alice and me with little tears shining in his eyes. “Cause you can’t do magic.” 

“Aye, there are still some of those people, thinking those sorts of crazy thoughts ‘bout being better than Muggles lurkin’ about.”

Tom the barman was watching the witch exit the pub with a disdainful curl of his lip. 

“But don’t you worry any about that. 

“Not only are they the minority, but you’ve got two of the most powerful wizards in Britain lookin’ out after you.”

He gave a nod in Harry and Draco’s direction, and Alice looked on the verge of replying when I heard Harry’s voice coming up behind me. 

“Sorry about that. It’s been a bit crazier than usual, appearing in public these past few months. Some people are still… not too keen on the fact that I’m gay.”

“I think it’s more they aren’t too keen on the fact you’re gay with me.”

“Don’t worry one bit,” Alice assured them, finishing her glass. “Just gave us an excuse to have a quick afternoon tipple, which I never say no to.” 

Harry shot her a grateful look as Alfie once more took up his spot on Draco’s hip and Callum and Violet took up their posts on either side of Harry, and our group made its way through the pub, every damned eye in the place locked on us, it felt like, until we exited into a small, dingy courtyard. 

“Where’s the alley?” Callum asked, frowning and turning in a circle, eyes seeking any sort of passageway to another world.

“It’s right there!” Violet practically shouted, pointing straight ahead at the brick wall opposite us, starting towards it with a run.

Luckily, Harry gently pulled her back before she could run smack dab into the brick wall, and Draco knelt down to be on level with her.

“You can see that?” he asked, turning his head first to look at Violet, then back at the brick wall.

“Can’t you? There’s a big street that’s full of people and lots and lots of shops!” 

“Well, yes, but there’s a brick wall hiding it right now.” 

Draco stood with a smile, then glanced over at Harry.

Then at the brick wall.

Then back at Harry. 

Then at the wall.

Then at Harry.

Even to a dunce like me, this didn’t seem like a good thing. 

“How do you get in?” he asked.

“I think we need a wand,” Harry replied with a frown. “I’ve actually never done it, myself.”

“Me neither,” Draco replied, and I admit to becoming a tad nervous. “To be honest, I’ve never even come this way before.”

I heard a little whistle, and next thing I knew Harry’s hand shot out to grab something that had zoomed past my ear, and next second, he was pointing a wand at the brick wall. 

He reached out and tapped at it, seemingly at random, and then the bricks began to shift and flip about until a giant opening appeared on a narrow, cobbled path lined with shops that twisted and turned far as the eye could see.

Said street was bustling with witches and wizards, and Harry and Draco turned to look at us with a knowing grin on their faces.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley!” Harry exclaimed, reaching out to grab both Violet and Callum as they made a mad dash for the street. 

“Take your time and look up and around at anything and everything,” Harry advised as we stepped through the opening and onto the street.

“I still remember my first time visiting Diagon Alley… bit of a sensory overload.” 

“Was it overwhelming for you, too, Draco?” Alice asked, both of us following Harry’s advice and taking in the myriad shops, the crowds of magical people, the piles of cauldrons, scales, little gold telescopes, and broomsticks advertised in the shop windows. 

“Hmm?” 

Draco turned from another silent conversation with Alfie to frown at us.

“Overwhelming?” 

Then his features relaxed into a smile, and he chuckled.

“Oh, no. I grew up in the Wizard world.”

And, although I’d never really thought about it before, I realised it made quite a bit of sense that there were magic folk who had never been outside of the wizarding world.

“I want to go there!” Violet was pointing at a shop full of sweets.

“Maybe later,” Harry replied. “Our first stop has to be Gringott’s, the Wizard bank, otherwise we won’t have the money to buy anything here.

“Also, that’s where we’re meeting Hermione and Teddy.”

Harry had already explained to Alice and I that we’d need to exchange some pounds for Wizard money and also consider setting up an account at the Wizard bank.

That way, when we made future trips to the alley, we’d be able to pay by bank card and they could just pull the money from our Muggle bank account in London. 

We walked on, still gawping at the shops with their strange wares, listening to the people talking and gesturing at the items as though they were discussing something as mundane as cantaloupe in the supermarket… which, I suppose, to them, they probably were. 

“Uncle Draco! Harry!”

I stopped staring at the window displays and saw a boy, about Callum’s age, with vivid blue hair running towards us, a giant smile on his face.

A woman followed, about our age, with curly brown hair and friendly eyes, walking hurriedly behind him.

They were, I assumed, Teddy and Hermione. 

As we all introduced ourselves, I couldn’t help but stare up at the towering white building in the background, the golden letters splayed across the entry telling me that this was Gringotts, the Wizarding Bank. 

I was so caught up in staring up at the blinding white marble I very nearly missed the scary-looking creature grimacing up at us as we neared the golden entry doors.

It was tiny, about the same height as Violet, with a pointy, leathery face accentuated by a pointy beard, and beady little eyes that stared up at us knowingly. 

“Lord Malfoy,” the creature’s raspy voice greeted us as he bowed low, the long fingers of his hand curling round the door handle to hold it open for us.

“It is always a pleasure to welcome you to Gringotts.” 

Draco responded with a polite nod as we filed by, only to see another set of doors, silver ones, printed with a foreboding warning against anyone stupid enough to steal from the bank.

Another pair of the creatures stood waiting at this door.

“Lord Malfoy,” they greeted in unison with the same low bow. 

I’m sure my jaw dropped as we entered the main hall, the vast marbled space crawling with more of those creatures, some counting piles of gems, others diligently filling ledgers, still others leading witches and wizards through one of the several hundred doors leading to… whatever it was they led to.

“Lord Malfoy.”

One of the swarthy creatures was at our side almost immediately.

“We were not expecting you, my Lord. How may I be of service today?”

“Thank you, Quilbor.” 

Draco hardly seemed phased by the attention the creatures were paying him, but Harry and Hermione, I noticed, looked intrigued.

“Never had a goblin so eager to see me before,” Harry murmured.

“I’m sure if you had seven vaults at Gringotts, full of Galleons, they’d be swarming around you, too,” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes.

I had no idea what Galleons were, but seven vaults full of them sounded impressive, even so.

“As it happens, I’m not here for personal business,” Draco was informing the goblin. “Harry and I are here with Ms Granger-Weasley and our nephews to get their supplies for Hogwarts next term.”

The goblin made a sort of grimace that I assumed was its version of a smile.

“Callum’s parents are Muggle, so will need to exchange some pounds and open an account here today.” 

Once again, the goblin bowed deeply — this time at us.

“This way, please.”

We followed the goblin… Quill-something-or-other… to one of the counters where he clambered up onto his stool. 

The goblin stared at me, then Alice, his beady little eyes seeming to penetrate right through my brain and into my deepest thoughts. 

“Right,” he murmured, opening his ledger and plucking his quill from its stand.

“Dudley and Alice Dursley. Muggle account at HSBC, Eltham branch…”

I already knew not to even question how the goblin had got this information and just kept a pleasant face as he scratched this information out on his ledger.

“I assume you’ll be wanting a family vault?” 

I started, then glanced at Alice, then back at the goblin.

“Erm… a what?”

“Yes,” Draco replied, smiling over at Alice and me.

“It just means that each of the children will get their own key, so they can access the front part of the vault to access any money you’ve allotted them.”

I knew he’d meant it as an explanation, but I was only more confused.

“So… they’d just have access to our account?” 

Draco frowned a bit at that, then glanced at Hermione.

“Not at all.” 

Hermione seemed to understand the dilemma, having been raised in our Muggle world, but having lived in the Wizard one for well over a decade.

“It’s hard to explain, but you’ll see,” she continued. “Family vaults have a front portion — almost like an antechamber — that the children’s keys will access. 

“If you decide that they should have some wizard money, whatever amount you decide will appear in the antechamber for them to pick up.”

She gave a knowing smile down at our three children here.

“And _only_ the child it’s intended for to pick up.” 

“Blimey, that’s brilliant,” I couldn’t help but mutter. “Absolutely. We’d like a family vault.”

Twenty minutes later, all the paperwork, or perhaps I should say parchment work, completed, our goblin escorted us to one of the several tall doors.

When we stepped through the doorway, I was surprised, having expected more opulence and vastness, as the bank had been delivering since the get-go. 

However, we were now in, far as I could tell, a giant cavern. 

Three carts pulled up, reminding me of a roller coaster, and the goblin began assigning us to them.

Harry, Draco, and Violet in the rear cart.

Callum, Teddy, and Hermione in the middle.

Alice, Alfie, and I — with the goblin — in the front. 

As soon as the carts took off, I lifted my arms above my head, letting out a whoop of glee that I could hear Callum, Violet, and Harry mimic. 

Alfie also gave a hesitant shriek of joy, albeit whilst clutching at my lapels and burying his head into my chest for safety. 

I was sure I was breaking every single damned protocol for proper behaviour in a wizard bank, but I couldn’t help it as our carts careened left, right, up, and down through the space. 

Alice just rolled her eyes and didn’t even bother trying to stop me, knowing full well her elbows and pointed looks would do nothing this far in our relationship. 

“That was just like a roller coaster!” Callum informed us all once we’d come to a stop and exited our little carts, just in case we hadn’t been paying attention.

“Sure was,” Harry agreed, ruffling Callum’s hair affectionately. “Thought maybe I ought to warn you, but didn’t want to scare you.”

“Oh, you needn’t have worried!” Alice exclaimed with a laugh. “Callum and Violet just adore going on roller coasters, and you’d think Dudley was just another kid, to watch him. 

“That’s good to know,” the goblin said with another one of their odd grimace-smiles. “We can go a bit faster next time if you’d like?”

The children all leapt up and agreed while Hermione, I noticed, took a little gulp and seemed on the verge of being sick. 

“These are your keys.”

The goblin brought us back to the reason for our roller-coaster ride as he dropped a tiny golden key into Callum, Violet, and Alice’s hands.

He held up a fourth, strung on a gold chain, and draped it ceremoniously around Alfie’s neck.

“That’s so he won’t lose it,” he explained, rather unnecessarily, but I appreciated it. 

He then held up another key and turned to me.

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll use yours to open the vault?”

I nodded, eager to see the inside of one of these things. 

As it turned out, there wasn’t much to see — just a large, stone-lined vault, with a small antechamber in the front, as Hermione had explained, and a larger room at back.

Alice and I had transferred two-hundred Galleons from our account into the vault, so there was a nice stack of gold coins in the main vault, and the three children began running for them, then turned back to look guiltily at Alice and me.

“Good idea,” Alice agreed with their actions. 

“Yeh,” I continued with a grin. “Your money, when you deserve it, will be out front!”

“I’d suggest taking forty or fifty Galleons, in case you need cash,” Hermione spoke up. “The rest can be withdrawn from your Gringott’s card.” 

The goblin helped us count out the gold coins we needed, going over the breakdown of Wizard money for us once more, which I was glad for, as it made no sense to me. 

“Seventeen Sickles to a Galleon, and twenty-nine knuts to a Sickle.”

“Erm… sure, okay.”

“We’ll help you keep track,” Harry assured me. 

“It is a bit confusing, at first,” Hermione added with an understanding nod and smile.

“Confusing?” Draco frowned. “There are only three coins. You Muggles have got bills _and_ coins. And so many different ones, I _still_ can’t keep them straight.”

“You can’t keep _anything_ straight,” I heard Harry tease, and I couldn’t help but laugh along with the other adults as we re-entered our carts and enjoyed the roller-coaster ride back to the main section of the bank. 

Soon after, we had exited the bank, and were back on the alley, turning left to head up one fork of Diagon Alley that Gringott’s split like a stalwart ship.

The other fork, according to all the wizards present, was a place for mostly dark and nasty magic, the likes of which my parents — no doubt — had imagined all wizardkind to be involved in. 

We made our way along the alley, heading towards the Apothecary, and I couldn’t help but notice the stares and murmurs that followed Harry and Draco as we went. 

“Like a slap in the face, if you ask me. Here we are, supportin’ him an’ cheerin’ for him, then he goes and pulls this on us.”

“Look! It’s Harry Potter! Mum, can I go take a picture?”

“It’s not that he’s gay, so much as it’s with the Malfoy heir. I mean, had it been, say, Ronald Weasley, or someone trustworthy. Nice, you know?”

This, I noted, earned a pointed glare from Hermione.

“It’s Harry Potter! It’s really him! Did you see how he caught that Snitch in record time last year?”

“Look, it’s _Lord_ _Malfoy_. They say he’s changed, but I bet he hasn’t. No one in that family could ever turn out alright.” 

I realised that Harry and Draco probably didn’t come to Diagon Alley often, and I was humbled again at how they’d put themselves in a position to hear all the nasty whispers and see all the curious stares on account of helping Alice and I get Callum set up for school. 

The Apothecary was filled with, what seemed to me, every pre-teen boy’s dream of disgusting bits and pieces of squishy animals, and Teddy immediately grabbed Callum by the hand to show him around the displays in the shop. 

Mounds of shiny beetle eyes spilt out of small containers on one shelf, while another boasted sloberworms – not that I knew what a sloberworm was, mind, but the name gave me a good indication it was another prime pre-teen-boy prize.

Snake eyes, dragon spleen, mandrake root, and more were all available, and now I truly felt like I was in the Wizarding world.

A shopkeeper hurried over quickly, speaking first to Draco, Harry, and Hermione, then, once learning of Callum’s acceptance to Hogwarts, beaming in our direction.

“Congratulations!” 

The shopkeeper shook Callum’s hand warmly, then looked at Teddy.

“And you, Mr Lupin, you’ll be needing to replenish your supplies for your second year?” 

“I sure will,” he replied, slinging an arm around Callum’s shoulders. “Don’t you worry, Callum, Mr Greeves will get you all set up.” 

“We’ve got everything you’ll need as a First Year,” Mr Greeves agreed, turning towards the shelves and bins.

“Shall I gather everything and package it for you?”

I was about to nod when Draco cut in.

“If you don’t mind, I have some leftover snake fangs, porcupine quills, and Valerian Sprigs that I’ll be sending with Callum.”

“Of course, Lord Malfoy,” the shopkeeper acknowledged with a nod. “Nothing but the best for you. 

“Course, you know it’d be impossible to keep such a high quality of ingredients in stock here….”

“I do,” Draco replied with a reassuring smile. “It would hardly be profitable, and unnecessary for most first years at Hogwarts.”

“However,” he continued with a grin down at Callum. “I’ve had the opportunity to brew a potion or two with this young man, and he already shows remarkable skill, so I thought I would gift him a few ingredients from my own supply.” 

“You’re a very lucky fellow,” the shopkeeper informed my son, and, naturally, Violet and Alfie had to voice their opinions.

“Are you going to give _us_ potions ingredients when we grow up?” Alfie nearly shouted while Violet turned giant, hurt-filled eyes at Draco.

“Why didn’t you give _me_ the special potions ingredients?” she asked, apparently seeing one of her visions.

Draco knelt instantly, tugging both children closer to him to look them in the eye.

“You are both extremely powerful, wonderful wizards, in your own right,” he assured my younger two, taking their little hands in each of his own, thumb rubbing reassuringly over the back of their palms.

“However, your brother has shown some excellent talent in potions, so I’m going to make sure he has the very best ingredients to help him develop that talent. 

“You know we — your parents, Harry, Hermione, and I — will do the same for your talents once you’re on your way to Hogwarts.”

“But I want to be good at potions, too!” Alfie complained, lip quivering, staring alternately between Draco and Callum, as though this might change things. 

“Oh, you may well be, but we won’t know until you’re older,” Draco assured him, so naturally that I had no idea if he actually thought Alfie might be good at potions or if he was just being nice. 

“What if _I’m_ not good at potions?”

Violet seemed very concerned about this.

“Then you’ll not be good at potions.”

Draco shrugged.

“Some of the most powerful wizards in the world are absolute rubbish at potions.”

He glanced slyly up at Harry as he said this, and I had to assume that Harry was not so great at potions. 

Harry, I noted, glared down at him with a fury that should have worried me… and Draco, to be fair. 

“But they’re still great at other sorts of magic,” Draco continued, choosing to ignore Harry’s glare.

“And that’s really the point, isn’t it? We ought to work together, with people whose strengths match and compliment our own, so we can make things better.” 

“Yes!” 

Violet nearly took Draco’s eye out as she leapt up and wrapped her arms around his neck and I almost felt bad, except that Darco managed to pull his face out of the way, and they were so goddamned cute. 

“That’s everything he’ll be needing, then” the shopkeeper broke me from my thoughts as he returned with Callum and Teddy, each of whom was clutching a large parcel excitedly. 

Harry helped Alice count out the Wizard money and Draco helpfully shrunk the boys’ parcels so they fit into their trouser pockets, and we were back on the cobbled street, the children eagerly asking where we were headed to next.

I was glad for their excitement, mostly because who _doesn’t_ enjoy seeing their children excited?

And for _school_ , no less. 

But also because, truth be told, I was getting rather caught up in the thrill of it all, and was glad my children had asked where to next so I wouldn’t have to, and I briefly felt another pang of shame and sadness that we’d treated Harry so poorly as a child.

Imagine how much fun we might have had, running Diagon Alley together, as Callum and Teddy were, now, me maybe even feeling a bit jealous of all the fun Harry would be having learning magic at Hogwarts and having to cuff him round the head. 

Not _too_ hard, mind, just enough to smart a few seconds. 

You know.

Being proper cousins. 

Callum’s wand was next on the agenda, and Alice and I traded looks of mixed awe and confusion as Hermione and Draco began to discuss wand woods and wand cores and a bunch of other things I’d had no idea went into the little stick thingy Harry had always had on him once he’d started school. 

We paused before a curious shop, with nothing but a wand laid out on a faded purple cushion, the window looking as though it hadn’t been washed in nearly twenty years. 

The sign read “Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BCE,” and I shrugged at Alice, figuring the bloke had to know what he was doing, even if the shop itself wasn’t tidy. 

I was wrong.

The inside of the shop was very different from the outside — rows of dark shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, stacked with neat, tidy rows of little boxes that had to have numbered in the thousands. 

Alice, the children, and I all stood quietly, somehow sensing we ought not to make a sound. 

“Garrick?!” Draco called out, his voice ringing in the eerie silence. “Are you here?”

“Mr Ollivander?” Hermione asked at the same time, and next second, a frail old man appeared, a joyous smile stretched across his bony face as he crossed the room, arms held wide.

“My two favourite customers,” he exclaimed, clasping them both in a quick hug. “What is it I can do for you today? New glamours that need to know what wand would suit them best?” 

“No, no work today,” Hermione assured him. “We’re here with Harry’s nephew.”

Ollivander stopped and turned towards Harry, his face lighting up into another smile.

“Yes, yes, of course. Mr Potter.” 

He shook Harry’s hand warmly and peered into Harry’s eyes just a tad too closely than I would have liked, personally.

Then again, this Ollivander’s eyes were a bit cloudy, so maybe he couldn’t see so well. 

“Erm. Hello. Long time no see.” 

Harry seemed just as uncomfortable as I’d have been, and he took a teeny step backwards as if to prove my suspicions. 

“I thought you might have been by to replace your wand,” Ollivander was saying. 

“It was a most curious wand, meant for a truly great wizard.”

Harry nodded and looked mildly embarrassed.

“The wood particularly good for a wizard who must embark on a dangerous quest,” Ollivander went on, completely oblivious to Harry’s reaction. 

“Holly, twenty-seven-and-a-half centimetres…” 

“Harry’s preferred length fo—” Draco began, but Harry cut him off with a swift elbow to the ribs and another one of those dangerous glares of his.

"And yours, Lord Malfoy. Hawthorn, twenty-five centimetres,” Ollivander continued, smiling back at Draco, either choosing to ignore or not understanding Draco’s truncated joke that nearly had me in tears trying not to laugh aloud. 

“A most telling wand, really… wood that symbolises conflict and turmoil that chooses only the most talented of wizards. Adept at curses… with a core of unicorn hair that is quite difficult to use for Dark Magic, and yet…” 

I looked over at Draco, remembering the first time I’d laid eyes on him, all vengeful and protective of Harry at Privet Drive, and I had no trouble believing Ollivander’s insinuation that he’d convinced the wand to do some very Dark Magic, indeed. 

“Father was most upset to learn my wand had unicorn hair as its core,” Draco mused. “He was hoping for dragon heartstring, like his. You know, with my name, and all.” 

“And, Ms Granger-Weasley.” 

Ollivander gave Hermione an affectionate smile, almost like how a teacher might give a favourite pupil (you know, that they never admitted to having, but definitely always did.)

“Vinewood, which only chooses a witch or wizard destined for a higher purpose. Who continually amazes friends and family with their depth and aptitude for change… and that dragon heartstring Lord Malfoy’s father so desperately hoped for.”

Ollivander turned his head towards me and the rest of my family and smiled again. 

“Dragon heartstring possesses an incredible amount of magical power, thus producing some of the most powerful spells…

“Some would say, anyway,” he shrugged. “But really, it’s most adept for wizards who learn quickly, like our Hermione.

“The wand chooses the wizard,” he continued, smiling at Callum and Teddy. “Not the other way around.”

“Edward Lupin, how is your wand working for you, so far?” 

Teddy grinned and held out his wand.

“Wonderfully, Mr Ollivander.”

“This wand…” Ollivander reached out to grasp Teddy’s wand. “Another very special wand. Acacia, twenty-centimetres. Unicorn tail core.

“A most unusual wand that selects only the most gifted of wizards — and bonds quite powerfully with him or her.”

Ollivander gave Teddy a fond smile, and Teddy blushed and his hair went bright fuschia to match his cheeks. 

Ollivander now turned his cloudy gaze towards Callum.

“I’m Callum,” my son blurted out, his hair sparking from his natural blond colour to a vibrant orange. 

“Harry’s nephew,” he added, glancing nervously at Harry and Draco, as though they might suddenly decide not to vouch for him.

“And a Metamorphmagus, at that,” Ollivander agreed, with a reverent shake of his head. 

Then, he was off down one of the many rows of shelves, plucking one of the boxes and carrying it back to Callum as though he were transporting a most delicate treasure. 

“Aspen,” Ollivander said, carefully removing the thin stick from the box and holding it out towards my son on both hands, as one might present a knight with a sword. 

“Delightfully adapted for the accomplished duellist, with a unicorn hair core, which promises consistent magic and a strong bond with its first user. Thirty centimetres. Quick and springy.”

Callum took the wand, an apprehensive look on his face, then waved it. 

Nothing. 

“I’ve yet to get one on the first try,” Ollivander assured him, taking the wand back and returning to his shelves. 

He returned with another.

“Black walnut requires good instincts and insight. It doesn’t pair easily with a wizard, but when it does, it’s one of the most loyal and impressive wand woods available, and especially good for charm work, too.

“Twenty-three centimetres, dragon heartstring core.”

Again, Callum waved the wand and nothing. 

He gulped and glanced at Alice and me.

I tried my best to smile and nod reassuringly, while I’m entirely sure Alice nailed both. 

“My, my, Mr Potter,” Ollivander grinned at Harry again. “You and all your family are going to prove to be tricky customers, eh?” 

Ollivander seemed pleased at this, and Callum stared as Ollivander took off down one of the rows of shelves.

“Yeah, don’t worry, Callum,” Teddy advised. “I’ve heard some wizards can try nearly a hundred wands before they find theirs.”

“Fear not, my boy!” Ollivander shouted, and you could just make out his silhouette climbing a ladder to reach up and grasp another box. 

“We’ll find you your perfect match!

“This one is poplar, twenty-three centimetres, whippy, with a phoenix tail feather core. Best for wizards with a clear moral vision and consistent strength.” 

Again, nothing.

“Is this bad?” Callum asked, glancing nervously at Ollivander as he replaced the wand.

“No, no,” the old man assured him with a reassuring smile before he gave a sort of smirk over at Harry. 

“I dare say this one here tried nearly every wand in the shop before we found his, right?”

Harry nodded in agreement.

“I was sure there’d been some mistake, and I wasn’t a wizard,” he admitted. 

“My wand is going to be made of silver lime,” Violet informed everyone. “With a unicorn tail core.” 

Ollivander turned very slowly, eyes riveted on Violet.

“Is it, now?” he asked, and Violet nodded.

“Yes, sir. It’s right up there,” she added, pointing to a spot way up near the ceiling on one of the shelves. 

“Indeed,” Ollivander replied, walking towards the shelf and climbing the rickety ladder that was propped up against it. 

He returned minutes later, carefully holding the wand out to Violet.

“I was wondering if I would ever sell this wand,” he murmured as she grasped it and gave it a little wave. 

A blue-ish glow emerged from the tip of the wand, surrounding Violet in a halo of blue light. 

“Wow!” Callum, Teddy, and Alfie were staring at Violet in awe, and I glanced over at the trio of wizards accompanying us to see if this was normal “wand-matching” or something related to Violet’s sight. 

“Mine just gave off a teensy spark and made my hand and arm feel warm,” Teddy said.

“The way a wand bonds with its master is different for every witch and wizard,” Ollivander said quietly, taking the wand back from Violet.

“I promise to keep this safe for you until its time for you to go to Hogwarts,” he added as he began climbing the ladder to return the wand to its spot.

He returned with yet another wand held out to Callum.

“Maple,” he began his usual explanation of the wands. “Twenty-eight centimetres. Thunderbird tail feather core.

“An ideal wand for explorers, those with ambition and seeking regular changes of scene. And the core, a new type I’ve begun importing from America, hints at a gift for Transfiguration and couples well with the maple’s travelling nature, being able to sense danger and cast curses on its own, if need be.” 

Callum took the wand, a little dejected frown already tugging at the corner of his mouth, and waved it. 

And his mouth dropped.

“Aha,” whispered Ollivander. “Most subtle, but fitting for a wand of this sort.” 

“That… that was incredible,” Callum gasped, waving the wand again, this time with more oomph, and a flurry of inky black and golden sparks flew from the wand, and Teddy gave a shout of glee.

“Ooh! Maybe this means you’ll be in Hufflepuff like me!” 

Teddy raised his hand and Callum reached up to give him a high-five.

“Our house colours are yellow and black.” 

“A most special wand,” Ollivander was murmuring, taking the wand from Callum and placing it gently in its box, then heading towards the little counter set up in the corner.

“For a most special wizard.”

This “most special” wand cost ten Galleons, which Hermione told me was approximately thirty pounds, and we were on our way again, stopping at the bookstore, Flourish and Blotts.

Again, Alice and I were thankful for Harry, Draco, Hermione, and Teddy to help us navigate the long list of books Callum would need, as well as giving us time to peruse the large amount of interesting books available in the store.

Alice even found a few that dealt, specifically, with raising wizard children, which we quickly added to Callum’s pile of required texts. 

“I’ll leave you with your Muggles, now.”

I turned to see a haughty-looking man sneering at Draco and Harry. 

“Although I suppose, with this new leaf I’m turning, it would be in my best interest to learn more about them, fascinating creatures as some of my former housemates seem to think they are.”

“In that case, I’d highly suggest you spend some time in the Muggle world, and make a Muggle friend or two,” Draco replied. 

The man shook his head, almost in disbelief.

“You realise if someone back at Hogwarts would have told me that Draco, of all people, would be advising me to spend time with Muggles….” he trailed off again, his indication clear. 

“I believe that’s Lord Malfoy, to _you_ , Nott.”

And goddamn, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a voice go so cold as Draco’s did now. 

Nott straightened, seeming to remember his place, giving Draco a curt nod, but Draco’s attention had shifted towards Alfie, who was running up to him excitedly, and Draco knelt immediately beside him. 

This Nott person looked on with interest, and I decided I’d best keep my eye on them.

Nevermind that I couldn’t protect my son anywhere near as well as any of the witches and wizards present could.

I still wanted to keep my eye on him. 

“What have you got there?” Draco asked, the usual sparkle and warmth in his eyes already replacing the icy stare that had been there not even a second earlier. 

“Have you found a book you like?” 

Alfie nodded and held his book up towards Draco, the two, no doubt, having another one of their silent conversations. 

Alfie seemed to have noticed the stranger looming above them, and he turned his face up, his usual giant smile on his face. 

The smile faded almost instantly. 

Draco reached out and gently placed his index finger under Alfie’s chin, urging my child’s attention back towards him.

“I asked if you’d found a book you liked, Luv?” he asked again, staring very seriously into Alfie’s eyes, and I suspected that he was telling Alfie, with his mind, not to let on to the other man that he could read minds. 

If that made any sense at all. 

Figment of my imagination — running wild, as it were, here in the wizarding world — or not, Alfie beamed at Draco and held up his book.

“Yes! I want Mummy and Daddy to read me this book every single day!” 

“Ah, yes, of course!” 

Draco let out a little laugh as he plucked the book from Alfie’s grasp.

The strange man, I noted, turned to leave, with one last curious glance in our direction. 

“The Tales of Beedle the Bard! These are wonderful! I loved it when my mum read these to me.

“Tell you what,” he continued, giving Alfie an excited grin. “Uncle Harry and I will buy this for you and Violet. 

“It’ll be something you and your mum and dad can do together while Callum’s off at school.” 

While I pretended to have dust in my eye, swiping at the few droplets teasing to spill out and over, Draco took Alfie and Callum off to make their purchases, and, after a very quick stop to pick up some quills and ink, we found ourselves in the cauldron shop. 

Unsurprisingly, I’d not thought much about cauldrons before now.

Pewter, silver, copper, collapsible, exploding (what the actual fuck?), and even some made of solid gold.

I was started out of my gawping by Callum and Teddy strutting up to me, Callum grasping a giant copper cauldron with both arms. 

“I found the one I want!” 

“Erm…”

I glanced at Alice, who shrugged.

What did either of us know about cauldrons?

“Callum, it says pewter on your list,” Alice began hesitantly, glancing at the parchment in her hand.

“But Uncle Draco's are copper and that’s what we used to brew the potion the last time!”

“I hate to do this, Callum, but pewter is going to be best for you.”

Alice and I glanced round to see Draco smiling down at our eldest son. 

“Copper heats very quickly and you’ll most likely end up burning your potions as a first-year learning the basics.” 

Callum looked most dejected at this.

“However, if you receive top marks in Potions your first term, I’ll be happy to let you brew a few in my cauldrons over break.” 

I can honestly say I’d never seen a more brilliant, genuine smile break over my son’s face, and I sincerely hoped he’d have reason to use Draco’s copper cauldrons soon. 

Teddy and Callum headed to a Madame Malkin’s next, to be fitted for robes while the rest of us decided to poke about the menagerie for a potential pet to bring home. 

“My condolences,” I heard Draco drawl, his gaze fixed on two men staring into the window of the sweetshop.

“Imagine, relying on the likes of Blaise to stay alive…”

The two men turned, grinning knowingly at us, and one of them, a tall ginger-haired man, greeted us excitedly, pulling Harry and Hermione into a warm embrace. 

The other man glared at Draco and smacked him playfully across the head, threatening to leave him on his own next time he needed help, and I grinned in amusement, assuming these had to be two old schoolmates of theirs. 

The ginger-haired man stopped suddenly and grinned over at us, introducing himself as Ron, and a memory clicked into place of Harry reluctantly leaving his schoolmates behind each summer when we came to collect him at the train station. 

It dawned on me, as I made a sheepish introduction to the ginger-haired man, that Hermione had been the girl in the trio, all grown up. 

We went to the menagerie, Violet having decided that Ron was her new best mate and dragging him off to one corner of the shop, while the rest of us wandered the shop a bit.

“What are those? They’re really cute! I want one!”

For some reason, Alfie pointing excitedly at a cage full of sleek ferrets made the wizards present burst into laughter. 

All, that is, except for Draco, who pretended to glare. 

“Yes!” Harry was gasping and clutching at his sides, he was laughing so hard. “Please! Get Alfie the ferret!

“Draco will be… will be… will….” Harry was laughing so hard, he actually collapsed into Draco’s side and couldn’t finish his sentence.

“Once, when Draco was being particularly horrible, one of our professors turned him into a ferret,” Hermione explained, a small giggle escaping her lips.

“It _was_ rather deserved,” Draco admitted, glancing warily at the ferrets. “And while I don’t think I’d want a ferret for myself, please don’t let my horrid teenaged comeuppances stop you from getting one for Alfie and Violet.” 

Alfie had already distracted himself with what appeared to be a Jack Russell terrier with a forked tail, the sign on the cage informing me that it was a baby Crup, or cruppie. 

Alfie was playing enthusiastically with the cruppie when Callum and Teddy appeared at the opposite end of the cage, their hair shocking neon shades of pink and purple, noses transformed to look like the panting muzzle of the cruppie, much to Alfie’s delight. 

Alice, hairdresser that she was, had reached a hand out to compliment the boys’ hair, and Ron and Violet came over to join us, having noticed the commotion at the front of the shop. 

The conversation turned to school, and any advantages a child growing up in the wizarding world might have, which, according to all present, were slim-to-none.

And, much to Callum’s dismay, it appeared wizard children still had to take exams similar to what we had to endure in the Muggle world.

The fact that Hermione and Draco had sat through the equivalent of nine and ten A-levels, respectively, told me which wizards I’d be pushing Callum to owl for help when his studies called for it. 

I was still trying to wrap my head around the thought of sitting for so many exams when Blaise suddenly informed Ron that their target was on the move, and I perked up, wondering what a wizard police chase might entail.

The two men wandered to a corner of the store and seemed to disappear into the background. 

Seconds later, a stunning couple appeared, grinning at us.

It was them, I realised, just barely keeping my jaw shut. 

Draco threw his head back, laughing, as the bloke slung his arm around the woman.

“Is that _really_ you?” Alfie asked, staring up at them curiously.

“That’s crazy,” I finally managed, staring at Alice. 

“I wish we could do that… not even for any reason, just for fun,” my wife agreed.

“Erm… you know this is just for work, right?” the man asked, and I realised that Hermione had never seen Ron in his work disguise. 

Hermione assured him that she was fine, and even asked Blaise how he was managing to walk in the teetering heels his disguise wore.

The woman flashed a sparkling smile and leant towards Hermione, whispering a helpful spell then the two were on their way after their target. 

“That’s incredible,” I murmured again, still not entirely over the fact that they could just change their appearances as we made our way back onto the street, having put off purchasing a magical creature until a bit later. 

The plan had been to stop for an ice cream treat at the ice cream shop, but we were sidetracked when Callum and Teddy caught sight of a group of children around their own age pressed around the display of a shop a few doors down. 

“Look! It’s Uncle Harry!” Callum shouted, and, suddenly, every single face turned from the display towards us, and all hell seemed to break loose.

Frantic cries of “Harry Potter!” and a flurry of movement had Harry and Draco surrounded by eager, smiling faces, asking for autographs, photos, and hundreds of questions about this wizard footie that I couldn’t understand even if I’d tried. 

Harry began good-naturedly signing the slips of parchment, posing for photos, and laughing and talking with his fans, and Alice and I took the opportunity to look at the shop window.

In it, a large telly showed what seemed to be a giant pitch, each end holding three large hoops that sort of looked like those wands you blew bubbles from as a kid.

Except these were gigantic and, as Harry had told me, about thirty or forty metres up in the air. 

Players were swooping and zooming about on broomstick, and next second, I saw Harry streak in from the upper left corner of the telly, the camera taking note of his sudden appearance and following as he continued his dive, streaking after an invisible target. 

Beside me, Alice gasped, as Harry continued to dive, another player chasing after him, the two of them on a seeming death mission to crash face-first into the ground below.

Harry’s right arm shot out, snatching something from the air, as he rolled over so that he was hanging from his broom, his back mere centimetres from the ground, as he then pulled up and rolled his broom back round, holding his fist up in that universal gesture of triumph, and I could finally see a tiny golden ball with fluttering silver wings clutched in his grasp.

“Harry Potter’s caught the Golden Snitch! New record set. 2:53 minutes!” 

The screen flashed then showed a sports team, all staring at the camera with the trademark “game face” on as they leant on their broomsticks.

“World Cup 2010. England.” 

Bloody hell, I thought to myself. 

My cousin was going to play in the wizard equivalent of the World Cup. 

“Mum! Dad! The Quidditch World Cup is this summer!” 

Callum was shouting excitedly and tugging on my sleeve. 

“Can we go?”

“Erm…” I had no idea, honestly. 

Could we? 

“Of course!” Hermione was laughing. “I mean, so long as it’s okay with your mum and dad.”

“Absolutely, but aren’t tickets hard to come by?” 

Alice seemed to be having the same thought process I was.

Hermione laughed again.

“They can be,” she agreed. “But I know a bloke. Or two.”

She smirked and glanced over at Harry and Draco, still surrounded by adoring fans. 

“If Harry can’t get you a pass, I’m pretty sure Draco still has access to his family’s private box.” 

Several minutes later, Harry, apologetic, as always, caught up with us, he and Draco confirming Hermione’s statement that, between the two of them, our family would most definitely be attending this year’s Quidditch World Cup.

I was still in a daze, perhaps all the wonder of the wizarding world and my cousin’s place within it finally catching up with me.

I was so lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed another ginger-haired man stepping out of another shop up the street, laughing and greeting Harry, Draco, and Hermione. 

It was Ron’s brother, who owned a joke shop, which he invited us into, promising to give the children some fun goodies to begin the school year “properly.”

I had a feeling what he felt a child might need to start a school year “properly” was nowhere to be found on Callum’s list.

Not that I minded. 

I rather enjoyed a good practical joke myself, from time to time. 

Sure enough, the shop was filled with all sorts of magical delights, and I felt my inner twelve-year-old come flying to the surface, eyes wide, mouth agape, as I began to eagerly peruse the shelves with Callum and Teddy. 

I could hear Draco asking George all sorts of questions about sending flowers and George’s bemused responses, then, minutes later, heard the arrival of Ron and Blaise, transformed out of their disguises and back to their normal selves. 

Blaise also seemed intent on questioning George, and I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of suspicious activity George had got himself up to. 

Hermione explained that many of them suspected that George was secretly dating another mate of theirs, and I couldn’t help but laugh at how Blaise and Draco were playing protective older brother to the woman in question. 

Suddenly, Blaise and Ron both paused, heads jerking upright as they both grasped their wands and hastily headed towards the door.

“We’ve got to run”, Blaise explained. “A crime’s just been reported near Gringotts.”

“They’re certainly having a jam-packed day,” Alice mused, as George wrapped up several parcels of jokes and sweets for us. 

“Yeah, they’ve been quite busy lately,” he mused. “Lots of stakeouts and such over minor security breaches.” 

George had just finished packaging our purchases when Draco started in a manner eerily similar to how Ron and Blaise had departed minutes earlier.

“I’ve been summoned,” he explained, leaning down to kiss Harry just above his temple before he disappeared without so much as a sound. 

“Are we… is everything okay?” Alice asked, nervously. 

“I’m not sure,” Hermione frowned, and, despite the fact that things might not have been okay, I was thankful for her candid nature. 

“Harry…” she said next second.

“I’m on it,” my cousin assured her, reaching out to pull the children a bit closer to him. “I’ll bring them back to Muggle London right now.”

“It was lovely to meet you,” Hermione said with a smile before she also disappeared. 

“You’re not in any immediate danger,” Harry assured us. “But with the crime that just occurred at Gringotts and the two of them getting summoned, it’s best for everyone, Wizard or Muggle to clear out of here right now.” 

“I’m probably going to close up and head home myself,” George added, smiling at us reassuringly. 

We were nearly at the end of the alley, about to enter the courtyard that led back into the pub when my daughter spoke up. 

“The voiceless are the virtuous,” she informed us suddenly, her eyes going somewhat blank. “Heed their message before they are silenced.”


	8. How to Train Your Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ENTIRE gang gathers to watch a movie about dragons. 
> 
> There. That's it. That's the entire summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and forth about how to write "Hagrid," knowing he has a very distinct West Country accent. However, most sources advise against completely writing in "dialect" as it's kind of distracting, and I also figured that since it's Hagrid's POV, he'd "hear" himself as normal, if that makes sense? Like, you don't know you have an accent until someone says that you do, and then, you're like "I don't have an accent... you do...." 
> 
> Anyhow. Just in case any of you were wondering what happened to his accent that I've sort of written out in other chapters (because other characters would hear it, right?)

_Friday Evening_

_09 April 2010_

_Hagrid’s POV_

"Hagrid! Look at you all dressed up! You look amazing!”

I self-consciously straightened my tie a bit before holding my arms out wide to gather both the teeny ladies standing on my stoop into my arms. 

“Ginny! Micah! Hullo!”

I know you’re not _supposed_ to have favourites as a Professor, but the littlest Weasley had always had a special place in my heart.

And now that we were both professors at Hogwarts… well, there was something special about that. 

As for her lady, Micah, she was just about the sweetest girl I’d ever met. 

So interested in all things Wizard – a bit like an opposite of Arthur Weasley, really – and I could only imagine the conversations they must have, both eagerly asking the other about things that seemed ordinary in their own worlds. 

I’d even taken to running some of my lessons by her, figuring if she could understand them, then a class full of young witches and wizards, Muggle-born or no, would have no trouble comprehending the lesson.

“Do you think I overdressed a bit?” I asked nervously, stepping back and taking in both girls’ jeans and jumpers.

“I was looking on that internetty thing and saw lots of pictures of people all dressed up for these movies, so I thought I ought to dress me best.” 

Micah burst out laughing, nearly bent over at her waist, she was laughing so hard, and I frowned down at my outfit. 

I had on my best pair of trousers and a burgundy shirt in a paisley print I rather liked, with my tweed jacket.

Sure, maybe the bright yellow tie I’d chosen was a bit flashier than what all them Muggle gentlemen wore to the movies, but I liked it and didn’t see what was _funny_ about it, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Micah apologised. “You look great, Hagrid.

“But I think some of the photos you saw on the internet might have been of Muggle celebrities at movie premiers.”

She paused at both Ginny and my confused faces.

“They throw these big parties when a movie is released in the Muggle world,” she explained. “And the Muggles who are in the film attend and walk down a red carpet, all dressed up in fancy gowns and suits and the photographers take pictures of them and stuff.” 

“Oh,” I frowned, adjusting my tie again. “Am I… erm… should I change into something less formal?”

“No,” Micah assured me, smiling as she grabbed hold of my other elbow. “Like I said earlier, you look wonderful. Ginny and I are lucky to have an escort like you.” 

“Well, then I suppose we’d best be on our way,” I said briskly, blinking away the few tears that threatened to spill over from her sweet comment, and held an elbow out to each lady. 

Next thing I knew, I felt that familiar tug at my navel as Ginny Apparated us to the location and found myself in a street in Muggle London. 

“It’s just this way,” Ginny explained, leading us down the street to our right, and minutes later, we were at the theatre.

It wasn’t what I’d imagined. 

We were clearly in a residential part of London – a part I hadn’t even known existed – the theatre being sandwiched between two buildings of flats with a tasty-looking burger joint located just beside it.

I followed Ginny and Micah into the small alleyway entry to the theatre, where Micah stepped inside to purchase the tickets, seeing as she was the only one of us who would really know what to do here. 

“Harry and Draco already paid for everything,” she informed us a few moments later, returning to where Ginny and I were standing. 

“What?” Ginny frowned. “They did not, those rascals.” 

“Did so,” Micah affirmed. “Bought the whole theatre room out, too, so no one else can come in.

“It’s gonna be a private party, just for us!” 

“Well, thanks a lot for waiting!” a voice I recognised bellowed before Ginny or I could respond, and I turned, surprised to see Professor Longbottom pretending to glare at us as he approached with his wife, Hannah, who held their daughter, MacKenzie, in her arms. 

“Neville!” Ginny seemed just as surprised as I was, but Micah laughed and ran back towards the street to greet them, and Ginny and I followed her lead.

“I ran into Hannah yesterday,” Micah explained. “And told them they _had_ to come!”

“Hope you don’t mind we decided to tag along,” Hannah apologised sincerely. “It sounded like a nice opportunity to get out and still be able to bring the baby along.” 

We were busy assuring the Longbottoms they were more than welcome when another voice sounded behind us.

“So… this is a movie, eh?” 

It was Charlie, staring up at the buildings and the sign announcing the title of the movies showing. 

“Odd,” he continued, frowning. “I thought there’d be a screen of some sort. 

“And didn’t Blaise say something about sofas?” 

He began pacing the front of the theatre, examining it curiously. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed, walking into the alley and up to some posters with those strange Muggle photos that didn’t move, pausing in front of the one featuring “How to Tame Your Dragon.” 

“Is this where they show it?” he asked, frowning down at Micah, then glancing back over at the poster, his brow furrowed. 

“Do they do some sort of Muggle Transfiguration to make it move?”

Charlie began pacing in front of the poster, looking at it curiously, and I joined him, looking for a clue for how the Muggles watched a movie on this. 

Ginny rolled her eyes and nudged her shoulder against her older brother playfully. 

“We’re outside, dummy!” she informed him. “We have to go _inside_ to get to the sofas and the screen.” 

“Oh…” Charlie blinked, then shook his head good-naturedly. “I should’ve figured _that_ out.”

“Hiya Hagrid!” he turned his attention towards me. “Ready to see this movie about dragons?!” 

“Am I ever!” I agreed, following the small group inside, where we found a small lobby area, and I immediately noticed a bar and lounge area. 

Was looking to be a nice evening, indeed. 

“Are you here for the ‘How to Tame Your Dragon’ film?” an usher asked. “You’re in the Upper Lounge, right this way.

“You’ll be able to order food and drink directly to your seats,” she added, perhaps noticing my forlorn glance towards the bar as we filed by. 

“Order food right to our seats!” Micah was squealing excitedly, grabbing at Ginny’s hand. “I don’t know why, but that makes me want to order ten times the amount of food I would normally.” 

“If you order it then you’ve got to eat it,” a drawl I recognised, even after all these years, scolded, and I glanced up to see Lord Malfoy himself leaning against the door, taking a sip from the glass of whiskey he held in his hand, a teasing smirk on his face. 

“Shut up, Draco,” Micah retorted, and I had to chuckle at the feisty little sprite, glaring up at Malfoy like she didn’t care who he was. “I’m going to order _all_ the food and put it on _your_ tab.” 

She and Ginny breezed past Malfoy, who merely grinned at them before turning his attention to us.

“Charlie, Hagrid! Hullo!” he greeted, a real smile spreading across his face – that is until Charlie pulled him into a headlock and ruffled his hair, absolutely ruining the perfect coif he’d had, and I couldn’t help but laugh. 

Even as a child, Malfoy had always taken great care with his hairdo. 

“Argh!” Malfoy shoved at Charlie, helpless, as the older Weasley had him in quite the hold. “I swear to Merlin, Weasley….”

“Oh, stop,” Charlie chided, ruffling Malfoy’s hair once more before releasing him and pulling him close into a hug, Malfoy still struggling and pretending to shove away. 

“You know George and I have all but adopted you as a little brother, what, with you dating our Haz. Might as well get used to the Deluxe Weasley Sibling treatment.” 

Malfoy, however, seemed to be distracted and was staring beyond Charlie at Neville and Hannah. 

“Oh. My. Sweet. Merlin.” 

“Is that a baby Longbottom?” he demanded, moving towards the couple and their young daughter with a look of absolute glee on his face, brows raising and smile widening as though he were addressing the young tyke herself.

Baby MacKenzie cooed and clapped her hands in response, clearly recognising she was the centre of Malfoy’s attention. 

“You _are_?” he continued their pretend conversation. “And aren’t you the most adorable baby in the room?” 

The baby giggled and clapped some more, and the rest of us couldn’t help but chuckle at this seemingly most un-Malfoy-like behaviour. 

Malfoy had already stretched his arms out towards MacKenzie, who had also leant forward just as eagerly, before he tilted his gaze upwards and glanced at Hannah, then Neville hesitantly.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, straightening and dropping his arms away from the child, much to the dismay of Baby MacKenzie, who gurgled her discontent most vehemently. 

“No! Please, don’t,” Hannah replied immediately, laughing and holding the baby out towards Malfoy, who gathered the little bundle up in his arms, the baby squealing with joy as Malfoy began pulling the most ridiculous faces. “If MacKenzie is smiling, we’re smiling.” 

With Hannah’s blessing, Malfoy turned and whisked MacKenzie into the movie room, lifting her far above his head and making zoomie noises, much to the tyke’s delight, and the rest of us followed. 

We had entered at the top of the room, overlooking the array of pink, yellow, and brown couches and chairs set up facing the giant screen Charlie had been searching for outside.

A gently sloping ramp led down towards the seating area, should anyone require it, which I thought was a nice touch for the Muggles to have included. 

Below us, Charlie was talking with Bill, Fleur, and Harry, who were gathered at the carpeted space between the first row of seats and the screen.

“Draco,” Harry chuckled as Draco came swooping down the ramp, holding MacKenzie up as though she were a baby dragon coming in for a landing. 

“Where did you find yourself a baby?” 

Harry’s eyes lit up then as they landed on me, and I couldn’t help but beam back at him.

“Hagrid!” 

He ran up the ramp, right past Malfoy, and practically jumped into my arms, wrapping me in a tight hug, and I couldn’t help but tear up a little, thinking of the first time I’d ever held him when he was just about MacKenzie’s age.

“I got the baby from Neville and Hannah,” Draco was explaining, bouncing the beaming child on his hip and dipping her across his chest to say “hello” to Harry. 

“They let me borrow her for my grand entrance.” 

“Well, seeing as she’s quite taken with you, you can feel free to borrow her anytime you’d like,” Neville assured him as more greetings were exchanged between everyone present. 

“You all need something to drink,” Draco noted, and I couldn’t help but grin at him.

“Now you’re speaking my language, Malfoy,” I replied, rubbing my hands together. “What’ve they got at that bar downstairs?” 

“Hagrid, you enjoy whiskey, don’t you?” Malfoy held out his glass towards me. “Take a whiff of that and tell me what you think?”

“It’s real nice,” I replied, sniffing at the proffered glass appreciatively. 

Malfoy immediately had his mobile out and was tapping something out with his thumb.

“You can order directly from your mobile,” he was saying, then paused and looked up, another uncharacteristic beam taking over his face.

“Oh! And our server’s a wizard! Recognised Harry and I, somehow…” he paused a beat to let us all laugh. 

“Anyhow, his name’s Jack, and he’s also got his owl with him – said the other workers here are just tickled that he’s trained an owl to follow him – but if you’d rather, you can order with Hector the owl, as well.” 

As if on cue, a large barn owl came swooping in and perched on the railing, followed by a young wizard, carrying a tray full of drinks.

He greeted us, passing drinks to Fleur, Bill, Harry, and Draco, and me, which I hadn’t been expecting, and I smiled gratefully over at Malfoy, holding up my drink in a silent toast. 

“Do any of you know what you’d like, or shall I just leave Hector here for a bit?” he asked, glancing over at the rest of the group.

“Why aren’t there any prices on here?” Neville asked, frowning up at the young server.

“Because Draco’s being an arse and magicked away the prices because he’s not letting anyone pay for anything,” Micah piped up, shooting a vicious mock-glare in Draco’s direction. 

Draco’s response was to double over in laughter.

“Merlin, Micah,” he gasped, wiping at his eyes and leaning on Harry’s shoulder for support. “I’ve been called an arse, and rightfully so, many times, but never for something like _that_!

“And besides, it’s Harry’s World Cup bonus that’s paying for this, not me, so turn your evil stares his way, will you?”

More laughter ensued as Neville, Hannah, Ginny, Micah, and Charlie placed their orders, and the young wizard was off, assuring us that he’d be back in no time. 

The next few minutes were an absolute blur as more people arrived.

Ron and Hermione I knew, of course.

And I recognised Harry’s cousin, albeit much thinner and much friendlier than when I’d seen him last in that rickety cabin out in the middle of the sea, and was pleased to meet his wife and family, the reasons for his complete change in attitude, according to the fellow.

Pansy Parkinson had also arrived with some Muggle friends of the group, Ben and Malik, when we finally got round to figuring out our seating.

“I suppose I ought to find me a nice spot in the back row somewhere,” I mused, glancing up at the last row of couches and noting a particularly squishy looking yellow one that looked just the ticket.

“No, no, no,” Micah was shaking her head from where she and Ginny were curled up on a sofa in the second row. “You and Charlie need to sit right here, smack dab in the centre of the front row.”

I paused my steps up towards the back row and glanced over at her and the sofa she was pointing at curiously.

Some of the others were also laughing.

“Without fucking fail!” Ben agreed.

“I… don’t understand the joke,” I admitted, shrugging.

Was I really supposed to sit right in front and block everyone’s view?

“It’s just that there’s nearly always some inconsiderate arsehole who comes and sits right in front of you, even though he’s twice your height, and even though there’s plenty of open seats,” Malik explained. 

“Not that you’re an inconsiderate arsehole by any means,” he amended quickly. “That… that was part of the joke… I think.” 

“Yeah, that, and you and Charlie would have to talk really loudly and make sure everyone hears your commentary on the entire movie,” Micah added. “The stupider, the better.” 

“Oh, well, I could do that,” I assured them all with a grin. “But I’d much rather do that from the back row, so the rest of you can at least see what I’m commenting on.” 

“And I’ll sit next to you so we can nerd out on the dragons together,” Charlie agreed with a grin.

It was a real nice setup, this place – must’ve been about thirty-odd sofas of varying colour that everyone was settling down on, and Charlie and I each got our own sofa with its own little table for our drinks and food. 

I watched, sipping the fantastic whiskey Malfoy had ordered for me, as the rest of the group fell into place below us. 

Fleur had laid out a play mat and some toys in the space between the screen and the sofas, and little MacKenzie and Louis were busily entertaining themselves, completely unaware of the giant screen before them. 

Neville and Hannah had seated themselves on one side of Ginny and Micah, while Teddy, Victoire, and Dudley’s oldest son had taken up residence on the sofa opposite. 

Harry and Draco selected a seat just behind Micah and Ginny, with the Muggles Ben and Malik on their left and Ron and Hermione on their right.

Dudley and his wife sat beside Ron and Hermione, perhaps to help keep an eye on their son and the other pre-teens in the row before them. 

Bill and Fleur sat in the sofa just in front of me, Bill jokingly standing and obscuring my view before turning to shoot me a cheeky wink as he sat down, and Pansy settled herself in a sofa in the same row, leaving one empty for Blaise and Anaïs, she explained, knowing that the two girls would want to converse in French. 

Suddenly, a small boy came running down the ramp and came to a triumphant pause in front of the screen, facing us as though we were his audience.

“Hello!” he greeted. “I’m Hugo Zabini, and I’m five!” 

I couldn’t help but chuckle as the adorable little one began to dance a little jig across the floor, clearly enjoying the scattered laughter and applause.

“Careful, this one here’s just a tad shy,” Blaise quipped, coming to stand beside his son and running a hand through his hair lovingly while his wife laughed as she set their little daughter on the playmat beside MacKenzie and Louis. 

“I’m not shy!” Hugo informed his father indignantly, pausing his entertainment to glare up at him. 

“Oh, sorry, _cucciolo_ ,” Blaise replied, smirking out at us, and I had a suspicion where his son got his penchant for entertaining a crowd. “That was a grown-up thing called sarcasm, where you say the opposite of what you mean. 

“You’ll have a full command of it when you’re older, I’ve no doubt.” 

Hugo gave a satisfied nod and took up his dance once more as Blaise and his wife made their way towards their reserved spot between Pansy and Fleur, and Dudley’s daughter ran up to stand beside Hugo, giggling and glancing at him shyly.

“I’m… I mean… my name is Violet Dursley!” she informed us all, and Hugo grabbed her hand and nodded reassuringly. “And I’m six!”

“She’s shy, like me!” Hugo crowed his eyes seeking his father in the crowd. 

“Look, Papa! I did sarcasm!” 

There was so much laughter and commotion going on at this point, I don’t think anyone noticed George Weasley sauntering down the ramp until he came to a stop at the bottom, eyes searching the seats for an available spot.

“George!” Ron stood up, frowning down at his brother. “What are you doing here? I thought you said you couldn’t make it?”

George shrugged.

“Changed my mind,” he replied. “How could I not show when this is all but a Weasley family reunion?”

“Georgie, come sit here, beside me,” Pansy called out, patting the empty space on the sofa beside her. “So we can make these fools even more convinced there’s something going on between us.” 

“I wouldn’t want to sit anywhere else,” George assured her, not skipping a beat as he quickly jogged up the stairs and sat beside Pansy. 

Everyone’s eyes were turned on them, watching carefully, especially Draco and Blaise, I noticed, and I turned to Charlie hesitantly.

“Is… there actually something going on between them?” I asked.

George was now making a big show of draping an arm around Pansy’s shoulders and she snuggling into his side, and Charlie shrugged.

“No idea,” he replied. “I mean, with those two, it could be real, or just an act for fun… or an act to keep us from guessing the truth….”

“Are you still enjoying those flowers I didn’t send you, dearest?” 

“Alas, they’ve finally withered away,” Pansy replied with a frown, batting her lashes adoringly up at George. “Perhaps you could not send me more so that I might enjoy those?” 

Pansy and George’s banter was cut short by the arrival of Jack and Hector.

“Is everyone here?” he asked, floating another round of drinks towards everyone. “Shall I start the movie now? Would anyone like to order any food or something before we begin? 

“Don’t worry, you can still order once the movie’s begun, but it’s nice to do one last call and get settled in before it all starts.” 

There was a flurry of movement as everyone placed orders, Charlie and I deciding to share some nibbles before tucking into our burgers – I’d ordered mine with extra Red Leicester, bacon, and a double order of chips and Blaise turned, reminding us to be sure to save room for the build-your-own ice cream sundaes the theatre was famous for. 

“Not to worry… I’ve got plenty of room in here,” I assured him, patting my belly and giving him a wink. 

A few minutes later, the screen in the front of the room came to life with a giant picture telling us about something or other about an entirely different movie – Blaise explained this was called a preview and wasn’t the actual movie, but something to convince Muggles to come back and spend more money at the theatre. 

Genius, really. 

Jack returned, carrying two trays so laden with snacks and drinks that even I wasn’t sure the Muggles believed he was carrying it all without magic, and as the orders floated out towards us, the screen dimmed and a title flared across the screen:

“ **How to Train Your Dragon.”**

Then, suddenly, the title shimmered and read:

**“How to Train Your Draco.”**

**_Written, and perfectly executed, by Harry Potter_**.

“Oy!” Bill shouted amongst the peals of laughter. “I thought you said this movie was meant for children!”

Harry, I noticed, was blushing and burying his face into Malfoy’s shoulder, and I couldn’t help but join in on the fun a bit.

“Gee, Harry,” I called out. “I didn’t know you’d become a movie maker on top of being a world Quidditch star.” 

Harry, bless him, turned and stared at me for a second before breaking into the wide grin I usually associated with him.

“It’s just a little side thing I do,” he quipped, turning back towards the screen. “In my free time.” 

The laughter subsided as the movie began, and soon I was enthralled in the tale of Hiccup and the little town of Berk that was constantly besieged by dragons.

“Of course,” Charlie muttered darkly, crossing his arms and glaring at the screen. “Make the dragons the evil ones.”

“They always do,” I agreed. “Wizard and Muggle alike. They just don’t understand them.” 

I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure what the title of the movie had to do with anything, seeing as the Muggles in the cartoon movie were bent on killing and maiming the poor beasts, and I could tell Charlie was feeling the same way. 

I’m sure he almost walked out when Hiccup shot down the Night Fury – a completely made-up dragon, he was sure to inform us all. 

Thankfully enough, the storyline soon changed, and Charlie and I cheered up a bit as Hiccup changed his ways and befriended the little fella, and Charlie even laughed and clapped in delight when Hiccup created the prosthetic fin so that Toothless could fly again.

“That’s exactly what a proper tail harness ought to look like!” he exclaimed. “I wonder that they didn’t have an in with someone working at the sanctuary to help out with that?”

Obviously, I was enjoying the movie and my burger, but I couldn’t help but glance down at the crowd below me and tear up a bit at all the wee little ones I’d known at Hogwarts, all grown up and starting their own families. 

“Oy,” I whispered, nudging at Charlie as I nodded in Harry and Draco’s direction. “How long do you reckon before those two start a family of their own?”

Draco was reclining sideways on the sofa, Harry snuggled into his right side against the back, while Dudley’s youngest son – who apparently had taken a liking to Draco – was curled up against his left. 

Both of them were fast asleep. 

From way up here, the young boy’s dark curls made him look a lot like a wee Harry, and the way Malfoy kept smiling down at both of them, the movie all but forgotten, it was easy to picture the three of them as a little family.

“Not soon enough,” Charlie laughed. “I’m definitely telling George to put that in the next round of bets.” 

Which, of course, led to him explaining about the bookies George had set up during the New Year’s Eve gala at the ministry, and I made a note to myself not to skip it next year. 

I had just turned my attention back to the movie, quickly approaching its climax where Toothless had been captured by the Vikings, Charlie and I staring at the screen in horror at the treatment of the poor thing, when a commotion down below caught my eye.

Hermione leapt to her feet suddenly.

“Draco,” she said, and I noticed Malfoy gently untangling himself from a very sleepy, very reluctant Harry on one side as he passed the still-sleeping child back to Alice.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“They’ve been summoned,” Blaise replied, twisting in his seat to explain the situation to us. “Seeing as they’re both Unspeakables, we don’t know much more than that, but it can’t be good.” 

I watched as Draco and Hermione made their way out, their exit halted by Dudley of all people, running to catch up and telling them something, gesturing towards Violet as he did so.

Draco and Hermione glanced at the young girl curiously, and Charlie whispered that Violet was, apparently, a Seer, and a dang good one, at that, and I wondered what vision she’d seen that Dudley had felt was so important to share with the two as they left. 

The two departed, and Jack was kind enough to rewind the movie so we could watch the happy ending uninterrupted.

And while I enjoyed seeing Hiccup, now with his own prosthetic leg, with Toothless and Astrid leading the little village into a new dragon-loving era, I couldn’t help but notice that Harry and Ron, now sharing a sofa, looked anything but thrilled with the way their evening had ended. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Draco and Hermione will be just fine.


End file.
